


A Mother's Final Gift

by TheScribbler_CMB



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Death, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friendship, Illnesses, Love, Love Confessions, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Pain, Romance, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 181,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScribbler_CMB/pseuds/TheScribbler_CMB
Summary: As Thornton battles bitterly with Margaret's rejection, and she in turn struggles to come to terms with her true feelings for the northern mill owner, an ailing Mrs Hale decides to intervene. Will her final gift to her daughter be enough to save this classic couple?
Relationships: Margaret Hale&Maria Hale, Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 308
Kudos: 231





	1. PREFACE/PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1:

PREFACE/PROLOGUE

Hello! This is my first fanfiction, (ever), but I will endeavour to do my best and hope you like it. There are so many fantastic stories on this site and others and I just felt inspired to join you all. It is the first of a series of N&S fanfic tales I am considering, so if you enjoy this, then there may be more.

My story has the synopsis that Mrs Hale has cottoned on to the fact that there is something going on between Margaret and Thornton and decides to investigate. Why have I gone in this direction, you ask? Well, for two reasons. One, I love a lot of the N&S fanfic about, but I feel like much of it tends to go down very similar themes and paths, (not that there is anything wrong with that), so I decided I would try something new. Also, Mrs Hale is a bit of a bland character, who rarely gets much chance to have any fun or influence in the novel, the various TV adaptations, or in fanfiction, so I thought I’d play about with her a bit. Anyway, I hope you will find the hypothetical Mrs Hale interesting and worthwhile to read about. So, to set the scene, this is set roughly a couple of weeks after The Great Exhibition trip and so far, none of the events or characters have deviated from the original story. However, in order to make this work, Mrs Hale is still very unwell and rapidly declining, but still has the energy and focus to converse with people to some extent.

**I would also like to state that the themes of illness, death, mental health, social deprivation, social inequality and sexual exploitation are constant underlying threads throughout this story, with some references that may upset some viewers. Please be assured that John and Margaret do not have a relationship that involves these themes, but the subjects surround them. I have felt these issues are important to explore, in order to give more substance to Gaskell's original characters, her text, and, of course, the author's own deep-seated concerns surrounding these problems that were so prevalent in Victorian society. I still believe that the story is positive with a happy ending, but this is to just make readers aware that negative themes are threaded throughout.**

Of course, I must say, that I naturally do not own the novel North and South, published by Elizabeth Gaskell in 1854, nor do I have any connection to any of the television adaptations from 1966, 1975 and 2004. Likewise, I do not own the characters in this fanfiction, including Margaret Hale, John Thornton, Richard Hale, Maria Hale, or Dixon. In connection, the fanfiction that I am writing will naturally be taking the liberty of expanding on the novel, its themes, its characters, and its events, for the purpose of fan related story telling.

I also want to make it clear, that I am not an expert in 19th century etiquette, (eek, despite having a history degree, double eek!), and some of the content in relation to what people say or do, may not have been entirely spot on for the Victorian period. However, I have done my best to write all actions, behaviour and dialogue to be suitable in relating to how I feel the characters would have behaved – although I have made the dialogue a little easier for a modern audience to relate to, than the original text from the novel.

Anyway, enough chit chat from me, on with the story!


	2. TIME TO THINK

CHAPTER 2:  
TIME TO THINK

Mrs Hale had spent the past two hours and…she had to check, yes…forty-seven minutes thinking.

She had been doing a great deal of that lately.

She knew that she was dying. Gosh, what a thing to realise…to accept!

But it was true and there was nothing she or anybody else could do to hinder or halt the hand of God in this matter. The almighty’s ordained providence could not be appealed against or rescinded; no matter how much she may hope or try.

It had been a painful reality to acknowledge, but she had quietly come to terms with it. She would soon be no more, and her weary body and soul would be laid to rest for evermore. But such oppressive and solemn cares now meant that her mind clamoured in a bid for some much needed contemplation.

It was therefore fitting, that as she had become increasingly bedridden, the decline in her health had meant that in her alert moments, she had been afforded the leisure – whether she wished it or not – to pause and ponder. It was during these series of reflective rests that she had begun to venture into meditation about her life and all she would be leaving behind in this mortal world.

She thought about many things. With a wistful smile, she looked back on her time as Miss Beresford, the belle of the ball. She too recalled her controversial marriage to Richard Hale and the placid joy and companionship they had brought each other over the years. Then, with a sorrowful heart, she bitterly recounted their abhorrent relocation to Milton and everything that accursed decision had entailed. But most of all, she thought about her two beloved children.

She thought about their pasts, their presents and most feverishly, she thought about their futures. Futures which she was loathed to concede, she would never witness. She wondered about her dear Frederick – poor boy! Oh, how he had been the apple of her eye. He was such a handsome one, a clever thing, a charming child. How she adored him.

It broke her heart to sense everything that had befallen him. To imagine the peril he had faced. The disgrace! To have been forced to flee his homeland, his position in life and become a stranger to his family. It was too much to bear. Even as she thought about it now, her eyes welled up with tears of grief which ran like troubled waters down her sallow face.

She sometimes wished her children were not so ardently principled. If only he had been spineless. If he had been a coward and just gone along with the captain until he could make his civilised and legitimate escape, then all would have been well. But no, alas, she yielded. That would not be her boy. That was not his way. To be sure, she respected and admired his brave nature, which like Margaret’s, was often reckless and defiant in its pursuit of justice. Yes, as much as she had wished events could have turned out differently, she knew Fred would never take back what he did, where he to have the chance again.

Still, it made her slight frame tremble and lament at the notion she would never see her firstborn again. Her daughter had sworn she had written to bid him come and despite a nagging concern and guilt for his safety, she was certain he would comply without hesitation. But whether he would come in time, she could only hope.

She speculated about what his future would be like. Was he not working in trade now? That rather made her shudder with poorly suppressed snobbery. He was living in Spain. That must be so strange, surely, he must miss England. Then again, he had been a sailor who had always yearned for the promising openness and adventure of the sea and these shores had not been his home for many moons before the mutiny. He was not married yet, but did he have a sweetheart? Was there a pretty girl who had caught his eye? She thought her son the finest and most fetching boy alive and she could fancy that many girls swooned after him. She just hoped he made a prudent choice. But most of all, she longed for him to be happy. Yes, that was all that mattered; that in the end, her Frederick was happy.

Then, one evening during the hallowed hush of her fading hours, her mind drifted to concentrate and settle on Margaret. Mrs Hale creased her brow as she considered her daughter and felt a pang of remorse as a reluctant realisation washed over her. The truth was, despite having had Margaret live properly with them for some time now, she now knew that she had not afforded as much effort as she should in truly noticing or getting to know her daughter.

She felt conflicted as she deliberated over her past decision to send Margaret to London for so many years. At the time, it had seemed a proper and purposeful plan. After all, Margaret and Edith were like sisters and with no actual sisters to speak of, it had seemed ideal to place them together and allow them to grow up in the warmth and affection of companionship.

However, Mrs Hale knew that this was not the real reason for her daughter’s removal to Harley Street. No, despite the general happiness of her marriage, Mrs Hale confessed deep down that she had been somewhat disappointed in her life with Richard Hale. Oh, it was cruel to believe! But there it was.

Despite the love they shared, their marriage had not been easy. On one hand, as a young woman very much in the grips of giddy love, she had never really appreciated that love only went so far, and it certainly did not act as a balm to all of life’s complaints. Truly, she had not appreciated just how much she liked being Miss Beresford and all that life had promised. She adored the balls and dinner parties, the polite society and handsome people, the fine dresses, and dazzling jewels. She had not fully grasped that becoming Mrs Hale would detach and isolate her so wholly from that world.

Of course, it was true that she did sincerely love her gentle husband. In many ways, their little life together had been much like a garden, in which the quiet, unassuming, but nonetheless beautiful flowers of affection and reverence had been tenderly nurtured and had faithfully grown. Still…on the surface, she never allowed her feelings to question her choice, but in the pit of her stomach, she felt the life she had resigned herself to had turned out to be wanting, meagre and insignificant in many ways. The fact was that she had never for one moment regretted the man she had married, no, but her dejection came from having to say goodbye to all those splendid and sparkling diversions and go and live in a poky, country cottage in a trifling, provincial hamlet, to play the uninspiring role of a vicar’s wife.

Her life had become so very small.

So, in truth, this was the real reason she had sent Margaret to live in London. She wanted more for her child than to have her cast as the pretty but plain Miss Hale of Helstone, whose sheltered life consisted of visiting the poor and tending to the sick. She wanted Margaret to have a chance to experience the best of both spheres. That way, perhaps, she would have the advantage of being born and bred as a country rose, but would one day end up where she belonged, back in proper society, as the wife of a _proper_ gentleman, a man who could offer her the life she deserved.

But, in the past few weeks, Mrs Hale had thought more and more about her decision to send Margaret away. Who had it really been for? Had it been for Margaret’s benefit? Or had it been to quench some sort of wish buried within herself which she could not hope to fulfil or satisfy? Either way, she had perhaps been selfish in sending her little girl off to be cared for by relations. For after all, it had meant that Margaret had been parted from her family for many years, meaning that she and her daughter had unwittingly evaded so much precious time together. Time that they would never get back and which was swiftly drawing to a close. Yes, perhaps she had been self-seeking, foolish even.

However, there was more to it than that. Mrs Hale had begun to fathom that the Margaret she thought she knew, the daughter who she thought she had been trying to cultivate in London, was perhaps not the young woman who was now before her. Mrs Hale may have become increasingly weak in body and spirit, but she could still notice things. And certainly, for all her frailty, she was not a stupid woman. Meek and mild did not mean dim-witted. Certainly not!

It was through the unity of her observant eyes and forced rest that she had been able to watch Margaret and make a start in acquainting herself with the true person she had come to be. At first glance, Margaret had many conventional attributes. She was nice-looking, refined, attentive to her duties, and fully aware of her role and responsibilities as a gentleman’s daughter. Indeed, Mrs Hale was sure that her daughter had the ability to stand out and delight in any room and amongst any company.

But there was something more about her, something which Mrs Hale confessed she had never been herself. The reality was that her girl was resolutely principled. Mrs Hale chided herself rather for not having previously realised how like her brother Margaret was. For all Margaret’s qualities, she was undoubtedly a determined and free spirit. She was clever, capable, diligent, resourceful, proud, stubborn, charitable, compassionate, pragmatic, independent, and dare she say it, a tad secretive and temperamental.

Whether for good or worse, Mrs Hale had noticed that with their move to Milton and in the wake of a lack of funds, married to her father’s oblivious helplessness and her mother’s prevailing illness, Margaret had been forced to take on significant responsibility. She had been required to become the mistress of the house, perhaps not in name, but certainly in deed. She had also had to lower herself to the role of servant as she helped Dixon, like some sort of common kitchen maid. That point really did stick in Mrs Hale’s throat and she wailed at the idea of her little one’s hands being bruised, dirtied, and coarsened by labour.

But there was more. Out with the private shroud of their home, Margaret had seemed to seek out and champion the needs of those less fortunate than she. Mrs Hale could not quite get her head around this, for in her rather shallow and self-absorbed state, she could not grasp that there was much need greater than their own. But Margaret had nonetheless willingly devoted herself to the service of others with such empathy, such conviction, and such zeal as she could muster. And she had not been afraid to show it, to voice her defence of the downtrodden.

At first, Mrs Hale had found all of this rather startling – alarming one might even say. For it was not the type of pursuits, the type of company, or the type of social persona that she would have wished upon her only daughter. It was true that philanthropic interests were acceptable for one of Margaret’s class and such things had been particularly appropriate when she had been the daughter of the parson in the unassuming Helstone. Yet, here in God-forsaken Milton, surrounded by such bleak and wretched people, Mrs Hale could not help but feel anxiety about Margaret's charitable crusades.

But after much soul searching and inner debate, she finally understood – with an uplifting smile - that she was in fact proud of her Margaret. This young woman who held so much strength and spirit within. The words, _though she be but little, she is fierce_ , sprung to mind.

So, naturally, after so heavily taxing her thoughts, as she studied the character of her second child, she now began to warily question where all this would take her.

 _What_ did Margaret _want_? _What_ did she _need_?

Surely in light of all this, it was apparent that the youthful Miss Hale would not be like other ladies her age. Would she really be fussed with parties and dresses? No, even although Margaret had always been naturally very attractive and had paid due and demure attention to her appearance, Mrs Hale could not truthfully say that her child was fussy or fancy in her pursuit of fashionable clothes or people.

Again, would she really care for well-polished young men? Or to be more precise, would she be ready and willing to notice the attentions of _a_ well-polished young man? For one man is all she needed. Mrs Hale wrinkled her nose and brow at this idea. She did so partly because she recognised with slight concern that she had never really discussed men and marriage with Margaret in much detail. Oh no, that would be rather indelicate and wanton. Then again, her brooding expression was partly due to a mounting feeling of uncertainty about exactly what sort of gentleman Margaret would care for. No, she felt sure that Margaret would not be drawn to just any proffered suitor and she would most definitely not be won over by brawn, birth, or breeding. Such was the pity! No, certainly, Margaret’s potential husband would also need brains, integrity, and humanity. Oh, why did Margaret have to be so…well like Margaret!

So, the real questions remaining surely were… _who_ would Margaret _want_? _Who_ would Margaret _need_?

It was then that an unbidden, niggling notion came to her.

A most bewildering and somewhat troubling theory pushed its way rudely into her fertile mind.

Unease began to breed within her, as she started to consider a certain person who had entered both their home and their lives in recent months. A person who she had paid little attention to thus far, but perhaps…no…could it be…no…maybe…

_That tradesman!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I know this is not the most exciting chapter, sorry! But I felt it was rather important to have, partly because this fanfic is a lot about the character and actions of Maria Hale, so it is only proper that she have some decent page time. But also, her deliberations are relevant to her up and coming thoughts, investigations and actions!


	3. THE PIECES OF THE PUZZLE

CHAPTER 3:  
THE PIECES OF THE PUZZLE

  
A little unknown fact about Mrs Maria Hale, was that she relished puzzles.

She was fond of any variety of entertainment which comprised of putting pieces together – whether that be objects or information – through the careful art of analysis and arrangement. In the end, her reward was a flawless, finished, and irrefutably final result. 

As a young child, the then Miss Beresford had been intrigued and infatuated by a series of such games that an uncle of hers had brought back from his travels abroad. Her favourite had been a sequence of tiny fragments of a hard-backed painting, all cut up into obscure and desolate shapes, which had lain scrambled and amassed, teasing her intellect, drawing her in. It turned out − much to the delight of her shrewd curiosity – that the purpose of the activity was to methodically couple and connect all the parts together, through the study of determining their interlocking shapes. Eventually, one would be able to link them all together, thus completing the project.

Maria Beresford had found the pastime most enthralling and indeed, rewarding. To her, there was something sincerely stimulating about being given a disjointed and somewhat chaotic artifact - a conundrum - and then being afforded the challenge of using one’s wit to conclude the undertaking. More besides, as a young lady who appreciated precision and neatness, she found the concept of putting everything in its right and proper place most pleasing. As a result, she had spent many an absorbed and contented hour playing with and accomplishing the various enigmas that her uncle had gifted the clever child.  
  
Yes, Mrs Maria Hale had a particular penchant for puzzles. 

However, it had been many years since she had indulged in such diverting amusements and had almost quite forgotten her fondness for it. But it now seemed that perhaps her dormant talents would need to make a reappearance - a revival - a resurrection, for she had been presented with a recent and most baffling riddle that begged to be unravelled and explained.

It was a surprise to Mrs Hale when, at eleven minutes past twelve on a particular Thursday morning, after thinking about her dear daughter and what sort of future she might wish for, that the image of a certain manufacturer had crept uninvited into her mind’s eye. 

Mr Thornton.

On the first occasion of him penetrating her daydreams, she had simply batted all thoughts of the intruding man away and attempted to refocus her musings on Margaret. 

Ah, that was better, she was back to thinking about her precious child. 

She began to envision the young lady in a handsome gown at a grand party, her soft porcelain skin illuminated by the twinkling candlelight. Oh! How divine she looked, what an enchanting figure she cut…then…wait…what…when…how did _he_ get there? He was in her reveries yet again! As Margaret stood conversing with some people who were a figment of the mother’s fancy, there that man was, standing directly by her side, looming over her like some great phantom. Or perhaps more like an out of place tree, for he was very tall indeed. 

Mrs Hale had to blink furiously in order to bid the vision to vanish. She nibbled her lip nervously, speculating as to what could have caused such a perplexing illusion.

Hmm…

Perhaps she was just a little overwrought. Yes, she had not slept peacefully the past few nights due to her aches and pains and her anxieties about Fred’s probable return to England. To be sure, in her weary haze, her awareness must be drifting between wake and slumber, casting the surreal ghosts of strange visions upon her. She shook her head impatiently, hoping to clear away the cobwebs that had been spun in her psyche at the hand of lethargy. Even so, she suddenly sat up a little straighter and crumpled her temple in critical contemplation. 

Why _him_?

Why should she imagine him in particular? Her fatigued and possibly rather fevered mind scrambled desperately for a reasonable answer. Why would it fabricate such an image? Ah there, yes, she had it, she now understood. It was because the only social occasion Margaret had attended since their transition to Milton had been a dinner party at his house. So of course, it was natural that she had innocently pictured Margaret at that very same gathering and she supposed it was not improper for the host to wander into the frame. She breathed out a hefty sigh of relief. Well, thank goodness for that. She rebuked herself for previously being so irrational, so silly.

Still…

In her imagination, he had smiled at Margaret. The quandary was that it was not merely the nonchalant, gentile look that one would offer any and all guests at an event. She had to pause again, but she was sure his expression had been warmer, softer…more familiar…more…no, it could not have been…more ardent. No, no, the lateness of the hour was to blame for the demented and riotous thoughts which assaulted her dreams. Again, she stirred herself in an attempt to dispel the muddled mist that had clearly infested and congested her sickening senses.

As she closed her eyes, her drowsy mind began to stray once more, and she romanticised about what her beautiful daughter would look like in a wedding dress. She wondered what sort of cloth and style Margaret would prefer. The girl was not prissy about how she was attired, but Mrs Hale did so hope that she would choose something exquisite and not just sensible, as was her way. With a gratified sigh, she pictured her Margaret arriving at the church and gliding down the aisle, adorned in heavenly white, just like an angel. Margaret stood by the alter, attending seriously to the sacred words of the minister. But she was not alone. The groom beheld her sweet face and with large, yet tender hands, reverently placed a thin gold band on her fourth finger – Heavens! There he was again!

Her sharp eyes snapped open. ‘Shoo!’ she booed, swatting her hand away. She felt rather ridiculous for uttering such ludicrous sentiments, as if he were some unwanted stray cat, but she was beginning to feel dreadfully frustrated by his insistent presence. Why was he intent on stalking her subconscious, like some sort of menacing spectre? Anxiety swelled in the pit of her stomach.

This would not do!

Mrs Hale once again dragged herself up into a sitting position and she felt the blood rush manically through her veins and it made her swoon. No, this would not do at all. She reached for her aromatic smelling solution and after her feeble hands clutched the bottle, she took one generous, resolute sniff. Ooh! Her whole body twitched as she felt the salts shake her from her stupor, stimulating her sanities. 

But, alas, it was no use. She knew that like it or not, this ominous man had breached her inner sanctum most persistently indeed and she would have to grant the trespasser to her thoughts her time and attention if she were to banish him once and for all. It was time to unearth whatever lay buried here and learn whether it be the child of truth or invention…or truth. 

So, it was hence that Mrs Hale began to scrupulously unpack and arrange her new-found puzzle. Firstly, what did she know about Mr Thornton? The stark and rather mortifying veracity was that she knew very little, despite him being her husband’s primary friend and principal pupil since their arrival in the town. The truth was, she had not judged it worthwhile to pay him much heed. She knew that he was quite young, although she was not certain of his exact age. She would place him in his late twenties, perhaps early thirties. He was from Milton stock and…oh yes…oh dear…his father had…eh-hem. She coughed and tried not to dwell on such shocking, sorrowful ideas. She had been sure she had not known where to look when he had divulged the details. She was aware that his education had been sorely interrupted by…well by that previously mentioned problem…and so now that he was at leisure to do so, had prevailed upon Mr Hale to act as his teacher and return once more to classical studies. 

What else did she know? She had discerned that he was a sound businessman, or so her husband had assented; although what he knew of such things, she could not fathom. What was more, she was informed that he was one of the wealthiest men in Milton. He had looked after his family most devotedly by all accounts and had worked relentlessly to raise himself from obscurity to a position of social, economic, and industrial prominence and power in his community. He was also unattached and had apparently shown surprisingly little interest in matrimony, for as Mr Bell had pronounced, Mr Thornton was married to Marlborough Mills. This odd supposition made her drum her fingers firmly and rapidly on the little table beside her bed. Could it be that such an eligible young man was not intent on attaching himself? It was doubtful. For, as Austen had said most astutely: _‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’_

Possibly it would be truer to say that Mr Thornton was not loath to the notion of nuptials, but rather that he had just never found the right bride to tempt his hand. It was at this latest thought that her irritable tapping ceased, and a spasm of clarity spurted through her.

‘Oh my.’

Somewhere, deep in the depths of Mrs Hale’s ruminations, her mind had paired her daughter with…she gulped…that tradesman. At the arrival of this startling turn of events, Mrs Hale’s chin shot up imperiously, in an act of defiance, rather like Margaret’s did – for the daughter got this habit from the mother. The very idea that her girl, a gentleman’s daughter, could be coupled with a man of his breeding and background. It was unthinkable! 

But Mrs Hale’s puffed out pride soon deflated and dwindled when she at last admitted that it was not about what she might want. Had she not already acknowledged that all that mattered was that her children were happy and contented? Therefore, did that not mean they would need to marry people who they themselves chose; just as she herself had been at liberty to do? Still, what was to say that Margaret would even contemplate to care for such a man; to entertain such a match? Hence, the question remaining was whether there was anything about Mr Thornton which would recommend him to Miss Hale. 

Hmm…

Margaret would most likely not give a fig for Mr Thornton’s social standing or fortune. On the other hand, she guessed that her daughter could conceivably be impressed by other aspects of his firm character. Most notably, she would venerate his determination to do his duty by his family, which had resulted in his decision to sacrifice his education and immediate ambitions, in order to relinquish his pride and work himself to the bone, just to rescue them from destitution. Certainly, begrudgingly, Mrs Hale could herself admire this. Even although she could not envisage her family ever sinking quite as low as all that, she would feel a fierce pride in her son if he had cast aside all his vanities in order to prevent his mother and sister from falling into such impending despair. Not only that, but it seemed he had honoured his late father’s debts and ensured that all of them were paid in full, long after the injured parties had given up confidence in such an eventuality. 

Mr Thornton’s rise from poverty to prosperity must have demanded many uncommon characteristics, including self-denial, commitment, selflessness, a sense of responsibility, and profound fortitude and energy. All virtues that Margaret esteemed. Without doubt, Mrs Hale could appreciate that these were valuable qualities to have in a son, or a brother, or…a husband. She also understood that despite his reputation as being a hard-handed and tight-fisted employer, he was generally considered the most benevolent and civilised of all his counterparts. Again, Margaret would have something to say about that.

It was then, with a quiet air of disbelief that the final realisation dawned on Mrs Hale. Had she not said it herself? Yes, she had conceded that her Margaret would not yield to brawn, birth, or breeding. No, instead she would only ever surrender her heart to brains, integrity, and humanity. And right here, right now, in Mrs Hale’s very mind’s eye, stood such a man. 

‘Good gracious me,’ she exhaled, in an almost silent whisper.

It took several minutes to compose herself and after what seemed like an age, she decided that her soul searching was not yet concluded. She could resentfully admit that Mr Thornton may, on the surface, possess some of the traits which Margaret might champion. However, that was no indication that the two young people had the slightest interest in one another.

Oh, but wait… a suppressed memory stole afresh into her restless head. 

Mrs Hale had only sat with her husband and Mr Thornton in their Crampton drawing room on all but two occasions. The first, had been that awfully stilted first meeting between her and him, when she had attempted to make uneasy small-talk about life as they found it in Milton and, she recalled rather bashfully, her lame remarks about the lack of suitable wallpaper to be obtained. It was on that same evening that the conversation had suffered a most thorny turn, as Margaret had taken against their guest. Exactly what had caused this shift in atmosphere, she could not recollect. She felt confident it had been something to do with the contrasts between the north and south and Margaret had made some discourteous criticisms about his ways. Oh Margaret! 

But then, on reflection, after the gentleman had left, the elusive and flitting thought had occurred to Mrs Hale that she had never before observed her daughter quite so animated or agitated by a gentleman’s character or company. Margaret could undoubtedly never have claimed to possess a tepid temper, but her conduct had formerly remained bridled by civility. This was the first time that Maria Hale had seen her daughter abandon her composure so utterly. 

Why, oh why…she wondered.

At the time, she had accepted Margaret’s apology and explanation for the simmering tensions, claiming that she had been exhausted by the physical and mental toll that their relocation had taken on her and that she had simply been caught off guard by his foreign ways. Unquestionably, Mrs Hale remembered fully sympathising. She too had felt flustered by his unfamiliar mannerisms. That handshake had been unprecedented for a start and it was no wonder that the confused child had not known how to respond. Although, the poor soul had looked sorely hurt by her rejection of his olive branch. 

Nevertheless, it was on the second occasion that Mrs Hale had sat with their visitor that the real spectacle did unfold. This incident had been several weeks after the first and once again, Margaret had joined them. She cast her mind back and attempted to draw out the scene before her, taking painstaking effort to faithfully recall each fact, for this was certainly no time to invent fiction or falsehood.

Yes…

There had definitely been a subtle mood; vague, but nonetheless palpable. She would describe it as a graceless unease between the two of them. It shrouded the room just as stubbornly as the smog clung to the city outside. She remembered that when Margaret had stood to tend to the tea tray, the young man’s head had whipped up quickly and his eyes, which, yes, they had lit up, were minding her movements intently. She even imagined that she had witnessed him privately grin at something to do with Margaret’s bracelet, but surely not, for men never noticed such things. Even so, Mrs Hale had deemed his curiosity a little peculiar at the time but had put it down to being a singular quirk of his. Or, maybe he was keenly watching how she made his tea, to confirm that it was to his liking; for such idiosyncrasies were not unheard of.

Still, there had been more. At one point, Margaret had been speaking to her father and had without noticing, dropped her sewing. Then, as quick as the snap of a finger and thumb, Mr Thornton had immediately risen from his chair and dashed to her side with agitated alacrity. He had bowed before Margaret, picked up her needle and cloth and humbly offered it to her. Had there been a tone of…wait, what was it…she could not quite put her finger on – oh yes, there it was, _servitude_ , in his demeanour? For a second time, Mrs Hale had felt a twinge of disquiet about his behaviour, but she had resolved that he was just exceedingly courteous. Perhaps such attentiveness towards the female sex was the result of being bound so closely to his mother and sister over the years. 

The third and closing act of this play had come about when her husband had deemed it fitting to invite his daughter into the gentlemen’s conversation about Greek Gods. Or, had it been Greek art? She could not remember, for she had admittedly permitted her mind to wander at this point. It had been something to do with the tiresome Greeks to be sure. However, it was at this point, as Margaret had looked up and began to unobtrusively enter their debate that the pupil’s countenance had abruptly and most decidedly transformed. He seemed to turn his entire body towards her and leaned forward expectantly, as if gifting his undivided attention. Maria Hale had glimpsed from above the rim of her china cup, that his eyes had never left the young lady – not once. A gaze which had endeavoured to remain aloof and calm, but which the older woman knew had encompassed something more. However, this time, she did not need a moment to deliberate as to what it was. No, she was certain that Mr Thornton had stared – not looked, stared - at Margaret with naked fascination. 

To begin with, her daughter had been rather shy. She had fluttered her eyelashes nervously and there was a hint of blush about her cheeks, as she sensed his overt notice of her. Nonetheless, she had ventured her opinions and he had listened diligently, nodding with encouragement. Nevertheless, there had been moments when Margaret or Mr Thornton would disagree with something the other had said and there had been flickers of discord. Margaret had again become a tad heated in her defence of her views, allowing her spirit to flash. But what was extremely unexpected, was that he had not seemed to mind. In fact, Mrs Hale was certain that instead of being affronted, he had – to her astonishment - rallied. Now she thought of it, she was sure that she had spotted a playful smirk on his face when Margaret had called him arrogant. 

Heavens above Margaret! What a thing to say to a guest. But no time for that now. 

To be sure, both he and her daughter had hurled accusations and aspersions referring to each other’s knowledge – or alleged lack of knowledge, or feelings – or implied misguided feelings − on various subjects. Yet, this only appeared to spur him on, and he beheld her with a smug expression. As the evening went on, they both explored and subsequently critiqued each other’s speeches with snide, sarcastic, and brusquely scathing criticisms. It was almost as if he – no, as if _they_ – were relishing and feeding off this tournament of intellect. In fact, their battle had become so fixed, that she believed that they had both completely forgotten the two other people in the room. 

It was at this point, that Mrs Hale had to stop and interrogate herself. For in normal circumstances, she would usually be the first to query such churlish conduct and would without hesitation, have quenched it. It was, after all, her role as hostess to ensure that all visitors were treated with decorum. But why had she not? Had it been because she had unknowingly been subjugated to the effects of her already emerging maladies? Unquestionably, that is what she would wish to say to excuse herself, but she knew it to be false. No, she had abandoned her duty and sat idly by, emitting not a word, instead she unobtrusively attended to her sewing. Why? Because she had to confess, that she had spied and not wished to stifle the spark of attraction between them. 

Oh! 

Her nerves were well and truly rattled. At the time, all these occurrences had seemed rather trifling, but now, with all the pieces sitting together, the puzzle was beginning to take on a rather noteworthy shape. 

It was as this final insight was maturing in her mind, that Mrs Hale was distracted by the low whining of her chamber door opening. She looked round to see Dixon shuffling in. At perceiving her mistress to be awake when she should be reposing, the faithful servant huffed. The corners of Mrs Hale’s mouth curled upwards at the tactless act, for even although she knew her maid frequently stepped well beyond the boundaries of propriety for one in her position, she also knew that she would be hard-pressed to find a servant who loved her lady so keenly in all of England.

‘Now, now then madam,’ Dixon scolded gently. ‘What are you about? You should be resting yourself,’ she chided in a soft murmur, as she padded over to the bed. 

Once by her mistress’s side, she began to cautiously rearrange the ailing woman’s bedclothes and cushions, to make her more comfortable. Seeing the drained look on Mrs Hale’s face, she became concerned and leaned in to soothe the lady’s brow. ‘Is anything the matter mistress? Have you taken a turn? Do you wish me to call the doctor?’ she asked, as she tenderly stroked the sea of greying hair, which now lay sprawled across the pillow. She noticed that despite her evident exhaustion, the Mrs had suddenly developed a little colour, a little life in her cheeks. Well, that could only be a good thing.

Mrs Hale merely smiled weakly and caressed Dixon’s hand. ‘Shhh now old friend, don’t worry yourself. I have just been sitting up thinking.’

Dixon grumbled again, as she turned away and began to tidy the discarded items around her. ‘No use in doing that mistress. Nothing good ever came of too much thinking,’ she groused. 

Mrs Hale grinned, perhaps dear Dixon was right. She settled her fatigued frame for a night of what she hoped would be undisturbed and refreshing respite from her infirmities. For she knew that tomorrow, she would have much to tend to.

‘Dixon?’ she asked faintly, her voice slurred with tiredness.

‘Hmm,’ replied the servant. 

‘In the morning, could you please ask Mr Hale to join me when he is at liberty? I would like him to sit with me awhile.’

‘As you wish,’ Dixon agreed rather absently, as she continued to fuss her way around the room.

Mrs Hale nodded. There were matters that she urgently needed to discuss with her husband. Only then, could she set her plan in motion. For better or for worse, Mrs Maria Hale _would_ solve this, her final puzzle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Okay, again I would like to apologise. I realise that once more, this is not the most exciting chapter - sorry! I had never intended to have this chapter, but as I continued on from the last, I realised that now Mrs Hale had got the notion of Mr Thornton in her head, she surely wouldn't just be ready to accept it and move forward without further contemplation. After all, she wants to care for her daughter and he is hardly a model choice of hubby in Mrs Hale's eyes. So, I felt it was important to spend a bit more time in her head. But have no fear, the later chapters will have more action and greater evolution between Margaret and Thornton. So forgive me, but I hope you enjoy this one too.


	4. THE MESSENGER, THE MASTER AND THE MEDDLER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter has references to mental health and depression, as well as Mrs Hale's terminal illness.
> 
> Also, there is mild swearing near the end.

CHAPTER 4:

THE MESSENGER, THE MASTER AND THE MEDDLER

‘M is for…marriage,’ she started thoughtfully, twisting the gold ring on her finger with an enchanted air of comfort.

When Mrs Maria Hale had first stirred that pleasant Thursday morning, she did not do so with the customary vulnerability and despair, which of late, had persecuted her body and soul. Recently, she had spent almost every second, of every hour, of every day, in a state of forsaken depression, as she cowered and grieved amidst her condemned existence in the harsh north. She had been adrift and amiss in a raging sea of woe, powerless to claw her way back to shore, to hope, to life.

M is for misfortune.

Endeavour as she might, she could not seem to wrench herself out from within these relentless and staggering waves of callous misery. She was drowning and she knew it. In the end, she had even given up struggling, instead surrendering herself to the obscure depths of sadness that seemed to swallow and secrete her. It was then, after abandoning the fight, that the merciless sickness within her head struck its fatal blow. It seeped into the roots of her very core; corrupting and conquering her entire being, compelling each inch of her frame and faculties to sink into a slow decline, from which she would never be allowed to escape − to recover.

But, not today.

Today, she had awoken with a rekindled feeling of resolve. This very same aura of determination had succeeded in revitalising her ailing morale and bones, more than any tonic or treatment had in many weeks or months. She had a fixated energy about her, which she was certain derived from her newfound resolution.

Even Dixon had distinguished the change in the mistress’s vitality when she came bustling into the room with a breakfast tray. She had half expected to find her lady much in the same way as she did yesterday; lying prostrate on the bed, senses dulled to the world, and a pessimistic prophecy for the day ahead. However, she had been gratefully mistaken in her prediction, for in its place, she had found Mrs Hale sitting up in bed as sturdy as a post and as sharp as a nail. Her previously pallid and dour complexion had turned decidedly rosy. It did not even occur to the servant to enquire as to the cause, for in her humble opinion, all that mattered, was that her mistress was brighter and had recovered some of her old fortitude. Nevertheless, sadly, Dixon was under no illusion that her dear friend was in the irreversible clutches of deterioration and knew – with immense sorrow − that there was nothing medicine or prayer could do to save her. Still, she was satisfied that the Mrs appeared to be having a good turn, even if it were to last just a moment. For she understood, with a heavy heart, that there would be few such days remaining.

It was after Mrs Hale had been washed, dressed and aptly swathed, that she reclined in her armchair, awaiting the promised arrival of her husband, who had agreed to visit and converse with her, after his morning pupil had departed. It was at this point, that Mrs Hale’s vivacious mind, which had been refreshed by sleep, began to sagely assemble, and examine the pieces of the puzzle that she had accumulated the night before. She proceeded to distractedly chew on the nail of her thumb, (as was her habit when she was in serious contemplation), as her brooding wit assessed the findings.

So, what were the facts?

M is for memory.

Firstly, she had accepted that her daughter was not one to marry any eligible gentleman presented to her, nor one that only professed to be amiable due to his wealth or social standing. In contrast, he would need to be a rarer breed of man, who could claim to be noble through possessing both sincere substance and spirit.

Secondly, despite the remorse it caused her, she could now finally admit that their ruinous removal to Milton was resolutely settled and unlikely to ever be reversed. Subsequently, it was perhaps futile to ignore the reality that Margaret’s fate would likely involve the need to accept a suitor from hereabouts.

Thirdly, Mrs Hale had come to the reluctant realisation that there was something between Margaret and a certain Mr Thornton. Indeed, she had observed an irrefutable magnetism between the two young people.

And fourthly, she had arrived at the rather frustrated conclusion that Mr Thornton, despite her latent prejudices and pride, was perhaps suitable in both worldly possession and conscience of character to be worthy of Margaret’s hand.

However, there was still one crucial fact, which Mrs Hale had yet to authenticate. This was whether the spell between them was the progeny of mere desire, or whether it had crossed over into the realms of romance. She felt a flood of acute guilt for her vulgar thoughts, but she had to question: was their liking for one another solely lust, or was it love?

M is for mortification.

After ascribing her shrewd sense and sensibility to studying the evidence in her possession, she had deemed that further investigation was necessary and so, had conceived a strategy of sleuthing, one which would require the unwitting assistance of her husband.

As she sat and awaited Mr Hale’s arrival, she continued to deliberate on the letter M. It had been an amusing game she and her sister Shaw had played as children, where they would think of a letter and each would come up with as many phrases that began with it as possible. Today, she had settled upon M after thinking about Margaret and with impish merriment, now wished to see which words associated with her clandestine idea could be linked to it.

She grinned, a puckish, elusive simper and clicked her tongue inside her cheek, as she mused over the budding intricacies of her new scheme. What else about it began with the letter M, she pondered? ‘M…Margaret, of course. Miss. Maria. Mother. Mrs. Mr. Matrimony. Milton. Master. Marlborough. Mills. Meaning. Mitigate. Mission. Meddle.’

It was at this point that there was a gentle rapping on the door.

‘Come in,’ she called keenly.

The door was pushed open and Mr Hale popped his little, greying head around the frame. At the sight of his charming wife looking up at him with inviting affection, he let out a reassured snuffle.

‘Hello, my dear one,’ he said tenderly. She held her arms out to him in mute entreaty. ‘Hello, my dear,’ came her sweet response. He strolled over and held her small, outstretched hands tightly in his wrinkled ones. It was truly exquisite to see her looking so well and on the mend. He silently thanked the Lord that her illness was at last abating. Dragging a chair over, he lowered himself, ready to sit by her side and offer his devoted companionship.

‘Well my little bird, you do look sprightly this morning,’ he teased softly, his bony fingers tracing a lazy path down her arm. She giggled and agreed, disclosing: ‘I do feel much better today Richard, I am pleased to say. I finally had a peaceful night of rest and feel much invigorated for it.’ Clearing her throat, she continued: ‘How was your lesson, my dear?’

If truth be told, Mrs Hale harboured little thought for how his tutorial had faired, but she wished to coax her husband in a certain conversational direction. However, she was not yet prepared to reveal her hand and confess her intentions, so alas, she had to navigate the impending discussion with a little bit of essential, but nevertheless harmless trickery. It was wicked, she knew, but sometimes husbands were best left out of the loop, lest they get in the way.

M is for misdirection.

Mr Hale was marginally surprised by his wife’s question, for in general, she had never exhibited much curiosity for his academic activities. Furthermore, since their advent to the town, she had seemed to withdraw and withhold her interest even more resolutely. Nonetheless, he responded by simply nodding his head unhurriedly. ‘Hmm, as well as can be expected. Mr Welsh is a pleasant enough fellow, but he lacks the true discipline required to focus on astute education, nor the natural intellect needed to shape a sound argument,’ he conceded jovially, in his usual good-natured manner. Taking his thin-wired spectacles from their perch on his nose, he began to wipe them with his handkerchief and offered as an artless postscript: ‘He is no Mr Thornton, I fear.’

At this last assertion, Mrs Hale’s attentive ears pricked, for she was startled that her spouse had himself, ignorantly and unsuspectingly, guided the dialogue into the very path of her own purpose.

‘Oh, indeed, how so?’ she asked, with a guarded quality of placid innocence.

Mr Hale gave a telling chortle. ‘John is such a clever chap Maria,’ he began, with undisguised enthusiasm. ‘Despite the gaps in his schooling, he is sharp-witted, make no mistake.’ He commenced rubbing his hands together as he delighted in the praise of his preferred pupil. ‘Yes, yes, he is most attentive to his studies and hungry to learn. I have hardly ever seen a man possess such a natural curiosity or veracity of intellect. He has a commendably calculated and fast mind.’

Mrs Hale listened raptly. This was high praise indeed from the Oxford scholar, who was typically timid and tame in his acclaim of others. So, Thornton was clever then.

M is for merit.

This surely had to be in the gentleman’s favour. He would need to be well-informed if he sought to impress or appeal to Margaret, not least keep up with her. Certainly, she would run circles around a stupid man in no time and leave him exhausted and not fit for use. Yes, Mr Thornton would need reserves of stamina and sturdiness in his disposition if he desired to win over their Miss Hale.

But she forced herself to haul her attention back to the moment and attend to her husband’s chattering. As she took note of his comments, she felt a prickle of joy. It was not often that he became so lively, and she knew how much Mr Thornton’s friendship and sympathetic temperament had provided a sorely needed reassurance to him during their insecure months in Milton. However, it was at this matter that she paused, as another instinct came upon her.

‘Richard,’ she casually initiated, ‘perhaps I am mistaken, but am I right in thinking that Mr Thornton has not attended his lessons for some weeks?’ Her quick eyes instinctively darted to her husband’s features, for she was sure that in his answer lay a consequential piece of the puzzle.

Mr Hale frowned, and his narrow shoulders sagged. ‘Yes, that is true, dear heart. He has unfortunately had to forgo our sessions for the past six weeks.’ His disappointment was evident.

Mrs Hale absorbed this new detail.

How curious.

‘Has he said why?’ she asked disinterestedly, although she was prying with keen anticipation.

He began to rub his temple fretfully. ‘Yes, it seems as if affairs at the mill have been all consuming of late,’ the old man mumbled. ‘You know of course, Maria, that there was that lengthy strike and then of course, the unfortunate riot at Marlborough Mills. So, now I believe the poor boy is rather engrossed in business,’ he related. ‘It is a terrible shame, I was so enjoying our time together, but perhaps he will return soon,’ he added with an attempt at optimism, but his tenor of regret was unmistakable.

Mrs Hale mulled this over.

Hmm…

If Mr Thornton cared for Margaret, then why, oh why, would he stay away?

M is for mystery.

Something did not add up. But as quick as can be, canny woman as she was, she knew what to do.

‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that Richard. I saw how much you enjoyed his company. But, you know, I have had an inspiration,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Mr Thornton has been so very gracious to us since we moved here and most generous to me of late. It seems we must show him our appreciation. Why do we not invite him to tea again?’

For a second Mr Hale perked up and his dismal expression changed to one of hope. But, after a moment it faltered. ‘That does sound most pleasant my sweet one, but it would likely be of no use. If he is too harried as to attend our tutorials, then surely he would be too preoccupied to be able to contemplate a visit to take tea.’

Mrs Hale was not going to be foiled that easily. It was time to deploy her feminine powers of persuasion.

‘Yes, my dear, but as you said, the poor man has been running himself ragged. He must be in need of some repose and recreation. I am sure one evening in our house could not hurt and I should so like to see him, to thank him for his attentiveness. We can but ask and if he says no, he says no.’

At this, Mr Hale’s cheery countenance returned. ‘Yes Maria, to be sure, I think you are right. We should offer him our home and hospitality as a refuge from his burdens. What a splendid woman you are! Shall I wander over to the mill today and see if I can tempt him?’

‘No!’ she snapped. Her tone had been short as she rapidly put her hand up to halt him. ‘No,’ she said again, with cautious cordiality. ‘Thank you but let me take charge of issuing the invitation. If we wish to tempt him, as you put it, I know just how to go about it.’

Just then, there was a hard bang on the door and Dixon beckoned: ‘Master, Mr Gellar, the butcher’s boy would like a word with you about his bedridden aunt.’

Mr Hale sighed and rose to depart. ‘I am sorry Maria, I shall come back later,’ he promised.

‘Umm, yes of course,’ she replied vaguely, for her mind was on other matters. ‘Oh, Richard darling,’ she called out, just as his figure had retreated over the threshold, ‘when you see Margaret, could you please inform her that I wish to see her?’

M is for mischief.

* * *

Half an hour later, Margaret emerged from the kitchen, where she had been assisting Dixon in kneading dough to make bread. Her arms ached, for it was a rather more effortful exertion than she had once imagined. She removed her apron and glanced in the hallway mirror, readying herself for her mother’s scrutiny. Oh dear! She did look frightfully unkempt. Her bun had come lose and reedy tresses of chestnut hair flicked and fell in all directions. She had flecks of flour on her cheeks and beads of sweat had collected and now shone on her brow. She stifled a small laugh, for even although she scarcely fretted over her unruly state, she knew that her mother would be appalled. After hastily attending to tidying herself, she sauntered up the stairs and proceeded to announce her presence.

‘Come in my little one,’ came a remarkably alert summons.

Margaret entered and was at once taken aback by the unexpected visage before her. She found that her mother, who for some time, had been in the grips of melancholy, presently appeared to be as fresh and spry as a spring daisy. Margaret smiled broadly as she ambled towards her parent.

‘Mama,’ she greeted. ‘My, how wonderful you do look.’

‘Ha!’ Mrs Hale retorted with a snort. ‘I imagine you did not recognise me, my love,’ she joshed.

Margaret arranged her skirts and gave her mother a fond kiss. ‘No indeed mama, you are looking glorious. I am so very pleased. Tell me, what has brought it about?’

At this, Mrs Hale allowed her mouth to curl delicately and her eyes to dance with masked tomfoolery. ‘Oh, I don’t know, my pet. It may owe something to achieving the first night of decent rest I have had in an age. Or…,’ she carried on, her voice wistful, ‘it could be the result of all that fine fruit Mr Thornton has been sending round.’

Margaret’s head shot up and she blinked wildly. Mrs Hale feigned not to notice, but after cautiously peeking up from under her long lashes, she could detect that her daughter’s face had turned a shade not dissimilar to beetroot.

M is for my, oh my!

‘Oh?’ was all that Margaret could manage, her pitch unforgivably high, almost coming out as a shriek.

‘Mmm, yes,’ Mrs Hale persisted matter-of-factly. ‘He has been so exceptionally solicitous, has he not? To think, with all his personal obligations, that he has taken the time and industry to acquire decent produce for me, all in the hopes of restoring me a little. What a dear man.’ She pretended to idly assemble the sewing on her knee. ‘You know, I am so ashamed to admit that I had not realised at first, how much of a true gentleman he is.’ She cast a chance glance upon her daughter, who was looking pitifully tense.

The plan was working marvellously.

‘Anyway,’ she persevered, as she distractedly picked away at the tassels of her shawl, ‘I have decided that it would be pleasant to invite Mr Thornton to tea.’

Margaret somehow managed to turn redder still – remarkable!

‘He has been such a firm friend to us that I fear we miss him in his absence. So, there, do you not agree, should we not entreat him to call?’ she asked at last, her air one of mock curiosity and enquiry.

M is for meddle.

Poor Margaret felt like she was burning from the inside and was sure her mother must be able to see the anxiety that pinched and scraped at her every nerve. What did she think, her mother had asked? She did not know. In truth, since Mr Thornton had proposed to her six weeks, five days and three hours ago, she had tried desperately to push all thought of him and what had transpired between them from her cares. Yet, it had been to no reward, for there he stubbornly remained in her subconscious, day, and night.

At the time of his confession, she had been under no illusion that his words would jar her, for how could such raw and assertive sentiments not leave their mark? But what she had not appreciated, was that he would brand her thoughts with such profound potency and complex insecurity of feeling. His unexpected declaration had seemed to expose and collapse something within her, shattering her once unyielding sense of identity and confidence. Where she had once felt resilient, she now felt as vulnerable and hesitant as a foal finding its feet. How could she have possibly discerned that when he had flung open the study door and fled from her stinging reproaches, that he would leave so much in his wake?

‘Oh, yes, I suppose you are correct mama, he has been exceedingly good to us,’ she granted. However, the violent unrest in her breast would not permit her to endorse her mother’s application. ‘Still, I fear that he will be too busy to attend to us, for as you may not know, he has been consumed with matters at the mill. I believe that he has been unable to take his lessons with father recently, so will no doubt be otherwise engaged.’ Every syllable felt like a knife on her tongue, the jagged edges of lies and deceit cutting into her, tarnishing her words with shame.

She closed her eyes and pictured him just as vividly as if he stood defiantly before her now. Every moment of their heated encounter tore through her concentration. His passionate testimony. His desperate pleas. His wounded voice. His utterly devastated face.

Oh God, that face!

Each of these scraps of his crumbled dignity had remained and clung to her, almost becoming part of her, like a haunting shadow, that she could not scatter.

Why?

It was at this point that Margaret realised her mother was again prattling on and she was thus pulled back to the sobering present.

‘Nonsense. Your father said the same thing. But I think you are both forgetting that there is nothing more welcoming than the promise of cake and cheerful discourse to a man who is exhausted by his labours,’ she jested. ‘Indeed, decline he may, but that does not deter me from asking him.’

Margaret gave up trying to fight the inevitable. ‘If you wish then, mama.’

Mrs Hale could not resist a secret smirk at introducing the next delectable stage of her scheme. ‘Excellent. Then I will leave it to you to walk over and ask him.’

M is for messenger.

Margaret felt as if she had been slapped. All the wind left her, and she suddenly went as white as milk.

‘Oh no,’ she pleaded shakily. ‘Oh, no mother. No, no, no. I do not think that will be possible.’ The stuttering words tumbled and stumbled over each other.

With a quiet hum of satisfaction Mrs Hale simply asked: ‘Why?’

Margaret was struck dumb. Why not? Where to begin?

‘Why? Well, emm…Dixon shall need me for a start!’ she hurriedly claimed. 

Well, that excuse was easy to squash, Mrs Hale mused. ‘No, she shall not require you darling. Mary is in today; she can assist with anything necessary.’

Margaret’s mind raced frantically. ‘Then you will need me.’

Mrs Hale offered an affectionate chuckle and shook her graceful head. ‘Well, as you said poppet, I am doing splendidly today, so I believe you can take a day off from playing nurse.’

Margaret searched urgently for some means of escape. Lord, anything would do!

‘A note will surely serve just as well.’ All the hot air trapped inside her frittered away as she heaved a sigh of relief. Yes, that was the answer, a note.

But Mrs Hale was having none of it.

‘Oh no Margaret, a note is so cold,’ she clucked. ‘No, I think if we are to tempt him, we need to do so with a little more effort and appeal, do you not concur?’ She did not wait for a response, for she required none. ‘It is a beautiful, clear day after that downpour last night, so you can go and post some letters for me and speak to him on your way.’ 

Margaret made a bid for one final coup.

‘But mama, he will be far too busy to converse with me.’ She knew she was clutching at any straw her grasping, flailing hands could acquire. For despite any anger Mr Thornton might feel towards her, she decerned, deep down, that he was too charitable to treat her boorishly.

Maria Hale noted that her daughter now appeared to be squirming and her bottom lip wobbled nervously. Oh, the poor lamb. To her discredit, Mrs Hale was finding all of this vastly comical. It was not that she was cruel or insensitive to her daughter’s distress. On the contrary, it was more that she herself remembered with nostalgia, the violent throws of complicated and youthful passion that she too had felt as a girl. Yes, she was merely pleased to have a chance to witness her only daughter experience it…before that chance was gone. With sadness, she wondered: when had her little one grown up into a woman, with womanly feelings and cares?

M is for man and maiden.

Although, she did wonder why Margaret should be making such an almighty fuss about seeing him, when she so clearly had feelings for the man. Still, she resolved to remain straight faced and give nothing away.

‘Oh, fiddle sticks! I am sure he can spare two minutes to talk to you, my love. I am certain he is not so occupied or gruff as to refuse you a brief audience. No, I have made up my mind, you must go and ask him if he will take tea with us this evening. If not, tell him to name his preferred date.’

With that, Mrs Hale waved her hand dismissively, as if signalling that the conversation was now at a close. Margaret stood slowly and skulked away, the heavy weight of her task bearing down on her slight shoulders.

‘As you wish mother,’ was all she could murmur solemnly, as she opened the door with weary defeat.

After her daughter had left, Mrs Hale winked to herself.

‘M is for matchmaking,’ she declared with a hushed purr.

* * *

Across town, a particular mill master was in a foul mood. With a flooded yard from rain the night before, soaking stock, a snivelling foreman, three broken looms, a burst bale, a late shipment, two brawling workers, five sightings of rats in the storage granary, a dislocated cart wheel, and a splitting headache, this was not turning out to be his morning.

All I need to complete this nightmare is a bloody partridge in a bloody pear tree, he had grumbled inwardly.

As John Thornton stalked ferociously through the courtyard, his face like thunder, everybody who came in his path retreated to a safe distance, nobody daring to look him in the eye, lest they incur his wrath. All his workers had noticed that in recent weeks, his already ruthless temper had without doubt, curdled into something more savage. As he slammed his office door closed, he cursed the day.

‘To hell with the lot of it!’ he barked.

Sitting down at his large desk, he observed the disarray of documents before him: ledgers, contracts, accounts, purchase orders, letters, rotas, payrolls, and invoices. With a protesting moan, he attempted to organise them, to rule them into a state of orderliness. But, as he sifted through the piles in restless frustration, he knocked a bottle of ink and its blue-black liquid spilt across the table, stretching out its murky tentacles in eager anticipation of ruining everything in its path.

‘Damn it!’ he roared, leaping up and snatching at this and that, struggling to rescue his drowning paperwork. It was then, as he picked up a parcel addressed to Marlborough Mills, that a lonely letter M, untouched by the stain of stubborn ink, arrested his attention. John Thornton swallowed hard, as one word, one name stabbed at his wretched heart.

M is for Margaret.


	5. PERSONAL PURGATORY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains strong language, so may not be suitable for some readers, on account of age or preference.

CHAPTER 5:

PERSONAL PURGATORY

After retreating to her room, with what felt like a valiant degree of decorum and restraint, Margaret then proceeded to promptly hurl herself down on the bed and give way to the storm of tormented anxiety that rumbled within. Was there no way out? May she yet dissuade her mother from this poorly conceived mission? Or could she at least concoct some means by which to defer his invitation, or at best, prevent her from seeking him out in person? For what seemed like several harassed hours, Margaret sat and gently rocked back and forth, wringed her hands, nibbled her lip, tapped her foot, and dredged her powers of resourceful creativity, all in a futile effort to uncover a remedy.

Unfortunately, none came.

At long last, she resigned herself to the inescapability of the task and slowly rose, with the air of one condemned. There was nothing for it; she would have to make ready and set off for Marlborough Mills. However, she deliberately took her time in fastidiously focusing on and fussing over each detail of her preparation. She might not be able to avoid him, but she could at least impede the encounter for as long as procrastination would permit.

Yet, as she studied her likeness in the mirror, his disappointed features stole into her fretful mind with startling clarity. It was so alarming, that she began to tremble all over. Failing to pacify the pangs of panic that ceaselessly pricked at her, she frantically danced around her fragile state of mind, straining to concentrate on something else, anything else, anybody else! However, it was no use; for she then unexpectedly halted and shuddered as her repressed reminiscence reluctantly dragged her back to that dire day several weeks ago.

How could she have foreseen what would transpire? How could she possibly have predicted his unexpected act? Oh, but Margaret, that look! Yes, that intense stare he had settled upon her when she first entered the study; that single flitting, inspired gaze had foretold all. She might have run then; she may perhaps have fled, but to her regret, she had stayed.

Blinking her way back to the present, she determined to get ready. As she fetched and laid out the items needed, Margaret decided to distract herself by making plans for the rest of the afternoon. What to do? For a start, she may as well write again to Frederick, as she had yet to receive a reply to their appeal for a visit. She could collect some preserves from the market, then assist Dixon with the ironing, or help her mother with her sewing project. Then finally, she would sort through her clothes and take any suitable frocks and trimmings, which were no longer fitting for her, to the poor. Yes, that was a fine timetable to keep her idle hands and fidgeting brain busy. At the idea of this pleasant proposition, she began to hum cheerfully, as she sifted through her day dresses. Now, the pale blue, or the navy blue? With a faint hint of a smile, she vaguely speculated as to what cloth or colour Mr Thornton would like best.

Oh! Stop it Margaret! What an extraordinary notion; what a silly fancy.

Margaret slumped back down on her bed and let out a shaky exhale of breath. This was getting absurd. For it seemed, that no matter how much she grappled with her sense of judgement, the mill owner would not quit her psyche. Indeed, with sullen exasperation, she confessed that despite her assumptions, his insolence had not dissolved the moment he had so hastily departed the house. On the contrary, he had the nerve to linger, to persist, and to indecently claim her mind as his property, his right.

The sheer conceit of it!

Well, he could forget that scheme, for she would not allow it!

No, despite feeling guilt constantly claw at her conscience over the way she had pitilessly censured and denied him; she would staunchly refuse to bequeath him permission to dictate her subconscious for a moment longer. Indeed, Margaret was convinced that with harnessing an abundance of indifference and hostility, she could seek to exile this invasive, unwanted trespasser from her head and her heart – wait no! just her head. With an insubordinate snort, she sneered thinking of how he might be accustomed to playing the overbearing master of all he surveyed; but with God as her witness, he would not be the master of Margaret Hale!

_‘I don’t wish to possess you!’_

She scolded herself, attempting to dispel this perplexing stupor. Nevertheless, strive as she might, the more she endeavoured to struggle free from…from…

his ardent, earnest voice…

his piercing, searching scowl…

his stirring declarations…

his wounded expression…

his effect on her…

his hold over her…

…then the more urgently…the more hungrily…the more fiercely she felt him. The more impatiently her whole body ached in want of the sensation of him – John Thornton.

Margaret stiffened.

_‘I came... because... I think it... very likely... I know I've never found myself in this position before. It's... difficult to find the words. Miss Hale, my feelings for you... are very strong...’_

Margaret let her discarded garments drop to the ground and for a minute, she stood silently in her vulnerable, yet liberating nakedness. She pleaded with herself to pay no heed to the tingling sensation which slithered and tickled throughout her mortified flesh at the thought of his deep voice, as it pulsated through her every nerve. She then collected her dress and placed it over her head, wriggling as it shimmied down her body.

His words had stayed with her so constantly; it was as if he had wilfully and rebelliously carved them into the bark of her very being: _‘One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by me.’_

Loved? By him? Outrageous!

How could he have exploited such sacred sentiments? Surely, he did not harbour any tenderness for her; it was not possible, let alone probable. They had known each other for so short a time and had done nothing but squabble and quarrel at each turn. How could he take the liberty to dishonourably presume to use such a word as _love_? Then again, the way he had beheld her…

_‘I wish to marry you because I love you!’_

No! How dare he! Why did he assume he held the authority to address her with such rough−unruly−indecent language? Had he no notion that a man addressing a woman so feverishly, would forever tarnish her unspoiled innocence? For irrefutably, such expressions of devotion – nay of reverence - should only be uttered in the sweet and privileged intimacy that lies between steadfast lovers.

_‘I am a man. I claim the right of expressing my feelings.’_

The scoundrel!

To think that he could toss around the idea of being in love so casually; when in truth, it should be treated with piety, with consideration, with sworn fidelity. But he was not committed to his offer. Nay, Mr Thornton had only applied for her hand because he felt pressured; he had deemed it his duty to salvage her character after the shameful scene she had caused at the riot.

_‘I spoke to you about my feelings because I love you. I had no thought for your reputation.’_

Wait, stop! It was too much to endure! It appeared that the more strictly she tried to evict Mr Thornton from her very core, the more defiantly he dug in his heels and clasped her close. It was as if he desired to be in charge of her every waking – and sleeping –moment.

_‘You cannot avoid it.’_

She reached for her hairbrush and began to discipline the knotted trestles that now cascaded down her back.

Still, what infuriated her the most, was the fact that she could be so feckless, so weak against his offensive. Truly, she had judged herself to be comprised of sterner stock than this. Did she not own enough restraint to dismiss him? To command and abandon the feral, untamed, unbearable chaos that she bore in her breast? Evidently not, for she was helpless in hiding from him.

_‘You must have to disappoint so many men that offer you their heart.’_

What Margaret could not fathom, was that when Henry Lennox had broached the subject of matrimony, she had managed to voluntarily move on and disregard the whole unhappy incident. Why then, did Mr Thornton plague her so? She felt sure that he was somehow doing it on purpose; for such arrogance and tenacity would be just like him. Still, Margaret could not deny that on that morning, his commanding presence, his indulgent words, his beseeching request for her hand, had all roused and awakened something completely unfamiliar and bewildering within every fibre of her soul.

She combed at her hair for far longer than was customary and undertook to pin up and take down her curls more times than she had fingers to count.

‘ _I would, cannot cleanse you from it.’_

She washed her face with rose water and scrubbed harder than was necessary, as if the clouded feelings she concealed could be swept away through vigorous purification. Then she commenced to hunt for her shawl and gloves…where were they?

_‘I have never loved any woman before: my life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things_.’

Ah, there they were, buried under a jumble of mending. Although, now she could not find her trusty brown hat, so opted to make do with one of her country bonnets. After tying the silk ribbons, she squinted one last time in the mirror.

_‘Now I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression on my part_.’

At long last, Margaret had worn out all possible routines and with great apprehension, quitted the house for her quest. Now, when Margaret walked, she tended to be brisk and purposeful, marching ahead resolutely towards her destination. However, today as she wound and shambled her way through the bustling streets, she dawdled and dallied as much as her legs would allow. After she had placed the letters in the post box, she considered how she might postpone her errand even a fraction of a minute longer. But unluckily, there was nothing to hold her back. Instead, Margaret stopped at every diversion and observed it with fickle interest. She glanced in the draper’s window at the new designs, although they were too fussy for her taste. She listened as two little girls skipped hand-in-hand past a row of identical houses, their shrill laughter rising above the clamour of the town. She counted the variation of vegetables she could spot on the grocer’s stall; reminding herself to pick up some samples on her return. She spied a scrawny bird ravenously picking apart a discarded morsel of food. She smelt the comforting aroma of fresh pastries wafting through an open bakery window. And she even paused at one point to ponder on the strange arrangements of the clouds today.

Oh Margaret, enough! How ridiculous!

Then, as she ventured onwards, she began to timidly wonder what it would be like to see him again. How would he receive her? Coldly? Graciously? Uneasily? Forgivingly? Angrily? She reflected on the three times their paths had crossed during the previous weeks. The first occasion had been the day after his proposition, and they had suffered that awkward chance meeting on the Milton high street. He had barely looked at her, but she had felt his bitterness all the same. He had then hastily disappeared, firmly taking the lovely Anne Latimer with him.

The second time had been at The Great Exhibition in London. What a frightfully uncomfortable encounter that had been. She still flushed at the memory of them arguing in public and then Henry electing to employ his southern snobbery and prejudice to mock and humiliate Mr Thornton. It was so unforgivably rude. It had revealed a shallowness and meanness about Henry, which she had not previously registered. Even although she could not claim to fully appreciate what had passed between all concerned in that instant, Margaret could not deny that she had detected a surge of loathing, of…could it be rivalry, between the two men? What strange creatures men were. She certainly did not believe that Mr Thornton needed to be jealous of Henry in any way. Henry might have his qualities, but Mr Thornton was more than his equal in every regard. He was − is – intelligent, enquiring, considerate, dependable, strong-minded, principled, hard-working, attractive…

Then suddenly an unwelcome theory surfaced to vex her. Miss Latimer had been there again − with him. She felt a sharp stab of…well something she could not quite grasp. The word envy sprung to mind, but she ignored it.

The third point she had seen him, had been during one of her evening strolls. She had witnessed him approaching on the other side of the street, but luckily for Margaret, he had not distinguished her, and she had darted into a side alley, awaiting his passage by. She had felt sincerely foolish for such cowardice, but she was not ready to face another awkward confrontation. The odd thing was, despite having hardly clapped eyes on him for weeks, she had still somehow sensed a clumsy, self-conscious rift between them – and she hated it! Although, she had no theory as to why.

Buried in her thoughts, Margaret eventually discovered herself outside the stern gates of Marlborough Mills. She peeped inside and saw that the courtyard was in its usual throng of hectic bustle. She hesitated for a moment and observed, for it was truly a scene of sheer helter-skelter, which, she confessed, she found rather mesmerising. As she surveyed the throng of jostling people, she snooped warily for a particular tall, dark, and handsome −wait, why did she say handsome? – figure, but thankfully, he was nowhere in sight.

Then, an inspiration arose. What if he was not there? Oh my, what if he was away? She felt a rush of relief sore through her and calm the jittering butterflies that quivered in her belly. He may be at the bank, or the post office, or with another master or an investor, or at his gentleman’s club, or even simply too harried to receive her. Yes, with a pinch of good fortune, she could enquire after Mr Thornton, find him unavailable, leave a quick note, vacate the location and situation, return home, and faithfully tell her mother she had tried. With an optimistic spring in her step, Margaret strode ahead and proceeded to perform her mission as swiftly and painlessly as possible.

* * *

At the same time as Margaret Hale was listlessly shilly-shallying her way across Milton, John Thornton was held up in his office, trapped and taunted by an incessant catalogue of arduous tasks and tiresome setbacks. Detestably, the instant that he had effectively grappled with one complication, another one scuttled out of the woodwork, delighting in goading his already thinning patience.

What a bloody nuisance!

Shuffling through the stacks of papers before him, he made an abject bid to instil some directive and method to his undertaking. He would not allow these irksome delays to blight and barrack him at every turn. Nevertheless, as his eyes scanned the neatly scribbled rows of numbers and notes, they all seemed to merge as one, blurring into an illegible mishmash of nonsense. Sitting back in his chair, he massaged his furrowed brow and stretched his broad form. He must try to refocus and start again.

‘Blast it!’ he bit out, a few seconds later.

It was hopeless!

The whole damned day was maddening!

In searing resentment, he pounded the table with his clenched fist, cringing as the thud echoed around the small room. But all at once, the fog of fury blew away and he was left feeling drained. With a dismal pant, he rested his weary head in his hands and groaned.

What a mess! What a bloody, unholy mess!

In truth, John Thornton was indignant with himself. He knew that he had misplaced his predictable, assertive measure of fierce motivation. He had relinquished his power to strategize, to mobilise his facilities with critical and pragmatic energy. He was so attuned to being in command of himself, of being stoic in the resilience and execution of his will. But lately…oh lately he was faltering and could not seem to recover his old self.

It had not escaped his notice that the almost mechanic like precision that had governed his entire existence for years, had been unceremoniously crushed to dust. He could not sleep, he did not eat, he was scatty, he was surly, he could not seem to concentrate, and he was deplorably ferocious. Mr Thornton knew that people watched him and undertook to interpret the unforeseen revolution in his countenance. To be sure, John Thornton had nurtured a long-standing reputation for being serious, severe, and formidable as both a man and master. Because of this, everybody commented on his uncompromising nature, and his workers, more than anybody, knew him to be hard. Yet of late, his sternness had taken on another dimension altogether. He relentlessly prowled and skulked from place to place; like a wounded, vicious beast, ready to strike, awaiting provocation to lash out and maim.

Yes, Mr Thornton was notorious and even respected for being strong, reliable, and steady. But now, God help him, the John of the past lay in ruins. And of course, as much as he willed himself to purge it from his mentality, he knew well the cause.

_Her_.

At the very thought of her, his whole body seemed to choke with a putrid pain, that schemed to cruelly rot and decay every ounce of his strength and sanity. He was perpetually being pulled about by the tempest of his violent passions, like a puppet on a string.

He grunted crossly, scolding his own shameful vulnerability.

What was completely unreasonable, was that he had managed to make it to thirty years of age, without being remotely affected by a woman. He had never before felt the all-consuming, intoxicating lure of keen desire. Yet now, out of nowhere, he sensed that his entire life had been besieged, imprisoned, and now punished by an irresistible feeling of devotion for another. In fact, he had prided himself on the point that whilst other men could so easily turn mindless and soppy in both personal and business affairs when a pair of pretty eyes caught their attention, he had never been so much as tempted.

Oh, but how the mighty fall! The devil and cupid between them definitely had a wicked sense of humour when it came to the destruction of the fortress that had for so long armoured and shielded John Thornton’s heart.

Indeed, Mr Thornton had gone thirty years without looking twice at a woman, and now, well now he had been knocked to his knees in worship, and he could not picture his life without one cherished maiden. It was like an addiction he could not relinquish. She alone engaged and satisfied an emptiness inside him, which he never knew existed. Only now, she refused to abide there and had sought to rip herself from his reach, tearing away his tattered heart as she fled.

Still, despite being incarcerated in the chasm of chaotic despair which his soul was now crying out within, he could not understand it. Was love supposed to be so merciless a mistress? Was it designed to slash and strike away at every corner of his consciousness? No, love was not sane.

Mr Thornton had eternally been a logical man; a rational person. He liked solid and undeniable facts and figures; concepts that were not varied, but secure. John had always assumed that if he were ever to succumb to caring for a woman or make the decision to marry, that it would be with the same self-assured intelligence that dictated every circle of his life. But how naive he had been! It was now obvious that matters of the heart were anything but academic and held no relation to the quantifiable figures lodged in the ledgers of his mill and the mechanisms of his mind.

Love was anarchy, love was brutal, love was unfeeling, love was sly, love was undisciplined, love was…glorious. Love was Margaret.

Throwing his pen down in angst, he raked his restless fingers through his black mane of hair and moaned. She confounded him. His mind flooded with the agony of that ill-fated day almost seven weeks ago. For God sake, how had he been so insanely stupid? He could recall it all with tormenting lucidity.

Hell!

What a pathetic spectacle he must have been; standing there, declaring his heart’s deepest, most treasured longings to a woman who loathed him, who recoiled from him. Oh, good God! Her frightened face!

_‘Please! Stop. Pray, please don't go any further.’_

If only he had stopped.

She must have been so confused, so utterly ambushed as she was. What was wrong with him? Had he not just admitted that he was a man of careful and calculated reason? He had never rushed into anything in his thirty years on earth; he could never be criticised as being rash. Nonetheless, he had given into his animal-like yearnings and surrendered to the self-serving recklessness that raged within. He had nonsensically gone to her and flung himself at her feet, with no real preparation, no actual planning, no genuine reflection on how it would look, or seem, or be received by this precious creature.

Fool!

_‘Please don't continue in that way. It's not the way of a gentleman.’_

Yes, she had accused him of not being a gentleman and even although her allegation had grieved his sensitive self-esteem, he knew she was right. Had he not launched into the conversation by addressing her aggressively?

_‘Your way of speaking shocks me. It is blasphemous.’_

Oh heck, he had! He had censored her enlightened opinions. He had been resentful of her endearing thoughtfulness for others. He had scoffed at her friendship with those who he deemed unsuitable. What sort of imbecile was he? What breed of beast? Damn − what debased species of gentleman behaved like this? Huh! Certainly, none who deserved Margaret.

Then, Lord forgive him, he had not examined himself, learned the error of his ways, and reigned in his harsh tongue. No, he had hurled forward into the most disastrous profession of love a man had surely ever uttered. Had Shakespeare heard of his assaults on the language of love, or of his attacks on the actions of wooers, he was sure that the bard would have penned a tragedy just for John Thornton. To make it worse, he had let his blistering temper run rampant and had harangued her so uncouthly. Blast it! Had he not even accused her of being a flirt, a temptress, an enticer of men’s hearts?

Oh, John! John, John, John, what had you been thinking?

He had been as coarse, as inelegant, and as bastardly devastating as a bull in a china shop. The despicable thing was that he had never been good at expressing himself. He had always been economical in his words; refraining from pointless, irksome tattle. Then, in his adolescent years and young adulthood, when he had worked tirelessly to secure the welfare of his frayed family life, he had lacked the leisure for excess, and had trained himself to be inexpensive in everything, including his dialogue. It had meant that when Miss Hale had entered his dreary life, he had been sorely deficient in all the proper qualifications required to delicately flatter and pursue her. He did not understand how to compliment a young lady, to subtly reveal his ardour and court her care. No, with John Thornton, he was always straight to the point and as a result, he had charged in head-over-heels and dashed the whole sorry scene to smithereens.

Brooding, he thought back on the pitiful proclamations he had submitted during his proposal. He had slipped and stumbled in a desperate attempt to be trusted, to be taken seriously. But it had not worked. His craving for her had clouded his rationale and he could not think straight, let alone string a romantic, poetic, or even credible sentence together.

_‘It offends me that you should speak to me as if it were your... duty to rescue my reputation!’_

Oh, beloved one, how could she have imagined he owned such a barren plan? How could she have doubted that he was in love with her? He cared nothing for her reputation; for as far as he was concerned, she had behaved heroically at the riot. He owed his life to Margaret and despite her refusal to accept his thanks, he would be grateful. But now, with hindsight, he realised how negligent he had been. Of course! It must have looked as if he were proposing to her because of the incident on the front steps of the mill house. It was true, that all he had offered her before that day was subtle, secretive hints of his feelings, of his intentions towards her. Penitently, he accepted that his offer must have come as a jolt and no wonder she had been offended; thinking that he sought her hand merely in duty and not devotion.

_‘You think that because you are rich, and my father is in... reduced circumstances, that you can have me for your possession! I suppose I should expect no less from someone in trade!’_

Mother of mercy! How that speech had cut him like a knife. Oh Margaret, Margaret! Darling, it was all so untrue! How could she not understand? He minded nothing for her father’s hardship, for he would want her by his side whether she was as rich as an empress, or as poor as a church mouse. And to think that he would wish to acquire her, like some sort of unattainable ornament. How wrong. How could she conceive that he was so cold as to care for nothing other than buying or selling? He may be a mere tradesman, but by God, he had a heart! He did not want to possess her; for how could any man ever hope to, or think it possible to own her, to tame her? He smiled fondly at the thought. No, he did not want to rule her − never. He wanted to serve her, provide for her, spoil her, adore her, respect her, treasure her − always. As he had nearly wept at the time − John only wished to marry her because he loved her.

Damn it, their audience had been short, and anything but sweet. Lord, had there ever been a more ill-fated three minutes? How was it feasible that so little time had passed, but so much damage had been affected? 

But saints preserve him, John Thornton knew that with just one sign, one look, one touch, he would still do anything for her, for he loved Margaret more than ever. Oh, how his unworthy heart pined for her. Oh, fuck! She had seduced his senses; bewitched him body and soul! Hell, it was sinful just how much he wanted her, needed her. He was entirely lost to Margaret Hale. Still, despite all the misery, he would not renounce any of it, he would not let her go!

But then again, of course, she was not his to let go, was she?

She had said no.

_‘I do not like you, and never have.’_

Sadly, John relented that all that remained following his vicious battle with love, was the hollowed out, empty shell of his former self. He was a prisoner, in his own private, personal purgatory. The thought of this bewildering woman ravaged his mind morning, noon and night.

But no more, he had to stop.

She had refused him; she had made it clear that her heart would never be his. But how could he forbid thinking about her? How might he cease obsessing over her? She was intrinsic to everything he did. Every thought, every feeling, every attitude, every action, every decision – from the moment they had been introduced. Wondering of her was as natural to him now as breathing out and breathing in. Yes, even although his whole being writhed horribly at the very sound of her name, even although he was angry and hurt by her refusal of his love, he could not help but be hers. Alas, it would be a herculean effort, but he prayed that God would grant him the strength and courage to move on, to forget Margaret Hale.

Glancing at the clock, Mr Thornton gathered with a worn-out sigh that time was marching on. He had a meeting in half an hour with some potential investors, who wanted a tour of the factory. Looking down, he knew that he was in a disgracefully scruffy state. His morning would not have suited the feeble of frame. No, it had been a stout, physical one, full of brute strength and muscle, as he had laboured along with his men to put to rights the series of misfortunes that Marlborough Mills had faced so far that day. He had lain under two looms, tinkering away in the hope of fixing them, oil and grease leaking over his clean white shirt. He had perspired and received a smattering of cotton fluff on his person, as he helped to heave and refurbish the ruptured bales. And he had become drenched in murky rain water, as he had drained and mucked out the swamped courtyard. Needless to say, he looked as rumpled and rough as a ragged rogue.

Yes, he was a fright and would need to go back to the house shortly in order to smartly wash, change, and make himself presentable for his callers. But right now, he was ravenous, for he had not eaten in longer than he cared to admit. With a huff of resignation at the day ahead, he snatched up his spartan lunch of a thick chunk of bread and some cheese and began to tear at them greedily with his teeth, determined to hastily refuel himself.

It was at that very moment, a knock sounded at his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, so a few notes...Firstly, thank you for the really positive comments and emails of encouragement so far, they have all been very much appreciated and I value your time and effort in posting them!
> 
> Secondly, this chapter contains a mix of quotes from both the book and the 2004 BBC series, for anybody who is wondering. All quotes have been italicised in order to clarify that they are not my words. 
> 
> Thirdly, I hope nobody was too offended by John’s swearing. I had thought about whether to include swears but have recently seen it used for him in another fanfic and felt it suited him. I see John as a somewhat stereotypical, (although not in all ways), masculine, uncouth, gruff guy. To me, he is, “a man’s man,” and so I felt swearing in private or in his head was suitable. I also believe that the swearing in this chapter helps to echo the angst and torment he is experiencing. Furthermore, I thought about what words to use and after some research, have found that all the words given were circulating during the 1850s. However, I specifically chose some which are more common now, as their insertion into the text will hopefully resonate the themes and feelings of this passage more with modern readers. But I do apologise for any offense.
> 
> And lastly, I do appreciate that some may feel the drama and story aren’t moving quickly enough in this fanfic. While I do appreciate that and fully understand that we all love a bit of fast-paced action, I do not think it would work here. As this story has evolved, I now believe one of the central purposes of this particular fanfic, is to subtly and thoroughly explore the thought processes of some of the major characters. To me, if characters like Mrs Hale and Margaret are to challenge their attitudes and actions, they would not realistically do that in a flash. And personally, I would feel really frustrated if I saw Maria Hale become a fan of northern millowners, and Margaret fall into Thornton’s arms, all within a few short paragraphs. As sexy as that may be, I want their thoughts to naturally mature and evolve, otherwise, it just feels false and lazy. Anyway, I hope you can understand this and can appreciate the current chapters for what they offer. I genuinely promise that the remaining chapters will have a lot more action and development.


	6. A TONGUE-TIED TRYST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains strong language, so may not be suitable for some readers, on account of age or preference.

CHAPTER 6:

A TONGUE-TIED TRYST

John Thornton’s teeth ripped ravenously at the hunk of bread in his hand, crunching at the stale loaf with hassled haste. He stole another careworn glimpse at the clock, it was now twenty-three minutes until the investors were due to descend upon his already fraught day. Begrudgingly, he decreed that he would permit himself the briefest of lunches, then swiftly get his office in some degree of poise and presentability, and then lastly, dash back to the house to hurriedly wash and change, outfitted and braced to perform the role of respected businessman. Jadedly, he admitted that he may not look or feel much like the imposing and influential master today, but he could at least bluff his way through the afternoon’s charade. He huffed, protesting at the impending idea of so much draining effort. But gripe as he may, he had work to do.

If truth be told, Mr Thornton was not especially enthusiastic about the forthcoming meeting with the prospective financiers. With a jeering blow to his already faltering self-respect, he consented that the mill sorely needed the security of venture capital. Certainly, the influx of funds would serve to stabilise the increasingly precarious operational and commercial anxieties that had emerged after the insufferable walkout from and shutdown of Milton’s principal factories. Nevertheless, he had a sinking inkling that the potential backers would not be of the earnest variety. After a few established years in his field of trade, Mr Thornton had built up a shrewd awareness for differentiating between those who intended to take the cotton industry seriously and those who merely wished to dabble.

Then, without warning, at the mention of this last phrase, his mind recoiled to recall a recent and acutely nauseating conversation. His pride prickled and with a scowl that would scare milk sour, he tried to push that thought from his mind – no time to dwell on such things now.

No, disappointingly, he hoped, but did not trust that the sponsors would turn out to be genuine and almost wished he could put them off. For a start, Mr Thornton had never been one to entertain fickle individuals who were impotent in both direction of purpose and the application of their time and resources. He found such people galling and pointless and had no reservation in disclosing that he refused to humour them.

However, secondly, and more critically, John Thornton was downright exhausted. For in the past few weeks, he had not been his usual stoic self. He had succumbed to sleep but rarely, turning instead into a nocturnal ghost that haunted the mill. Sitting up night after night, he would toil ceaselessly, as a solitary candle faithfully kept vigil, flickering until it devoured itself and snuffed the room into obscurity. Still, John Thornton would scratch away at his ledgers or tinker with his machines, as the rosy hue of the dusty city dawn awakened and yawned, stretching its glow across the factory grounds.

On the rare nights that he did turn in, he would startle in the small hours, and lie immobile upon his coverings, his alert mind racing feverishly along numerous fruitless paths. He had also barely eaten a morsel and could feel the weight falling off his already lean frame. In light of all this, he had discerned that his energy levels had dwindled, his cognitive faculties had grown sluggish, and his mood and temper had rotted into something wicked, scheming to infect each inch of him. Even his mother had begun to pester him about it, fussing and cooing around her son. All of this combined, had left John Thornton feeling in drastic need of some vital rest and restoration.

He sought to unreservedly lay the blame for his enduring burdens at the feet of the industrial action and riot. Bloody, fucking trial of shit all that had been! If he could thrash the damned life out of that wayward union, then he would. He grumbled bitterly. Yes, he would gladly strike them down, just like their errant strike had struck him harder than his dignity cared to admit.

However, it was just not true. He felt a sharp stitch of sorrow stab at his chest. It was taut and tense, as it tightened around his tormented heart, like a vice. No, he knew, deep down, in the most secretive depths of his being, that there was a different cause, a much more personal affliction, locked tenderly away in the treasure trove of his soul. But again, no time to think on that now.

Indeed, after the numerous stresses of this condemned morning, all he hankered for was to be left alone, to be allowed to get matters back on track, and to retire to his bed early. His mother and sister were due out this evening, so with relief, he knew that he would be free to fend for himself. This would afford him the sorely needed peace to welcome repose and repair his weary body. But more meaningfully, it would grant him the serenity he selfishly craved to mourn in the privacy that the seclusion of his study proffered. He prized the sacred hours that he could pass in isolation, where he could devote himself to obsessing over whatever, and whoever, his lonely spirit desired.

Yes, he just wanted to be left alone…with _her_.

Impatiently munching at the last scraps of his paltry meal, John Thornton was resolute in his willpower to see the day through with as few additional distractions, obstacles, or challenges as possible. And God protect any sorry bastard who got in his way.

But at that instant, there was a knock on his door.

Hell’s bells!

Grumpily, he ignored it at first, praying that whoever it was would just scurry off back to their snivelling hole. But in a trice, there it came again, a slightly brassier drumming of knuckle against timber.

‘Go away!’ he spat out crossly, yet indistinctly, as he was still chewing.

He pondered who it could be. He discerned that it would not be Williams, as he had a much firmer, more definite beat, which Mr Thornton would be sure to recognise. It would not be the investors, as one of the yard labourers had been strictly charged to keep an eye out for them and call the supervisor the moment their carriage drew up. Furthermore, even if they had arrived early, it was unlikely that he would have been interrupted just yet, as it was agreed that Williams would be available to welcome them cordially and exhibit some minor sections of the business, before Thornton himself was bothered. He knew it would not be his mother, for on the rare occasions that she ventured to his office, she never announced herself, but trooped in boldly. And without a shadow of a doubt, he would even gamble, (something he never did), that it would definitely not be Fanny, for she had not once set foot in any part of the mill property, other than the house. Hmm…it was almost unquestionably one of the new-fangled workers, eager to chew the fat with their employer. He had recently realised that such dim-witted chaps were to be found, men who did not know better than to disturb the beast that was their master – morons!

No, he was not sure who it was, but he was certain of one thing: they could go to hell!

He cast a spiteful glare towards the door, almost daring whoever it was to trespass, so he could pummel them to a pulp. He started to snarl like a savage hound. With a wicked and sarcastic quaver of his lips, he mused over the fact that some likened him to a bulldog. Well, today, their reference was absolutely apt.

‘Get stuffed! I’m busy!’ he barked, fighting to swallow the last bits of bread in his mouth. He soared to his feet and commenced to straighten and unclutter the papers encircling him, irritably sprucing the office for his imminent guests.

Nonetheless, whether the person on the other side of the frame was seeking to goad the mill owner, or whether they had simply not heeded his dismissal, the insatiable cad defied to knock for a third time. And at this point, the door creaked ajar and Mr Thornton began to growl, and his shrinking patience finally snapped, as he heard the intruder brazenly tread over the threshold.

Oh-ho-ho! He was going to make the son of a bitch regret the day he was born!

Not glancing up from his task, the enraged John Thornton’s single reaction, his sole reflex, was to roar: ‘BUGGER OFF!’ His deafening, hostile tone ruptured and howled around the room, menacing every corner and cranny.

But then, he was clutched by a numbness that made his blood run as cold as the grave. For much to his arrested alarm, the answer that came was not the gruff, coarse dialect of a working-class northern fellow. No, whoever it was, was as quiet as a mouse. All they offered was an irresistibly gentle, sweet, simple: ‘Sorry.’

John Thornton’s head shot up and he was instantly swallowed whole by shock, for he beheld the very last person in the whole wide world that he had expected to see.

_Her_.

Before him, in the gloom of his office entryway, lingered the demure, yet striking silhouette of Miss Margaret Hale. She said nothing, but watched him warily, her soft lips parted and her graceful complexion as white as chalk. She unassumingly paused, and mutely stared back at him, visibly hesitant about how to proceed. Should she leave as he had commanded? Or venture further? She waited for instruction, but in his stupor, he offered none.

John Thornton just ceased in mid-action, like a man turned to a statue of salt by a vengeful God. He stood stock-still, with his mouth agape and his brawny mass trembling. At last, he rubbed at his eyes and gawked at her, afraid that he was hallucinating, for in truth, he had been neurotically thinking of precious little else than this woman for weeks, months even. Yet never for one moment, had he imagined he would see her today, here, of all places.

Oh help! Something inexplicable was crippling him!

Sweating.

Rapid pulse.

Clammy hands.

Queasy.

Palpitations.

Heavens! He must look like such a buffoon! In a heartbeat, contrary to his will, he could do nothing but feebly renounce his self-control, helplessly resigning as his body declined into a stiff and shaky panic.

‘OH SHI…’ No, no, no, stop! Mr Thornton only marginally managed to censor himself, lest he let an unguarded and lewd profanity escape his quivering lips. Though, to his horror, in the mere tick of a clock that it took for all of this to happen, John Thornton had forgotten that he was still eating. It was then, at the wonder of receiving her, that he took a brusque intake of breath, and in doing so, swallowed a chunk of bread.

Unfortunately, it got stuck.

Immediately, the lodged article, which now obstructed his throat, made itself known and he began to choke.

Oh heck!

Gagging and retching, he strove to bring it back up his gullet, yet it seemed intent on staying put. Rapidly drowning in an uncustomary sea of dread, as the air depleted in his lungs, John began to beat a solid fist harshly against his breast, in the hopes of hammering it out. As he did so, he lurched forward and gripped at his clogged gullet.

Even although all of this came about in a flash, the spectacle of this typically impressive man, who was inured to dominating all, suddenly collapsing into a suffocating fit, almost made Margaret jump out of her skin. Impulsively, she rushed forward to assist.

‘Oh! Mr Thornton! I am so sorry!’

At perceiving the man before her turning an alarming shade of purple, Margaret was seized by terror. ‘Oh dear! Mr Thornton! Mr Thornton! What can I do?’

He tried to communicate something, but only a strenuous and pathetic wheezing wail tumbled out.

Abruptly, a course of action occurred to Margaret and she initiated smartly slapping him on his broad back with her palm. After a series of deliberate smacks, he heaved and spewed out the offending food, which had thwarted his breathing. With the scare over, she stepped back and permitted him the appropriate space to recover himself. Spotting a decanter of water and a glass on a shelf, she poured him a drink and then submitted it wordlessly. Gratefully, he accepted and slugged down the clear liquid, keen to clean-out his pipes.

Fleetingly squinting at her, all he could do was splutter an undignified: ‘thank you.’

Margaret withdrew, feeling increasingly uneasy. She was still unsure of whether she should stay or leave, especially after he had so heatedly shouted at her. She made to speak, but the words simply shrivelled and perished, for she was beset by mortification. When Margaret had arrived at the mill, she had promptly found Williams, the overseer, who had directed her to Mr Thornton’s office, stating that he could presently be found there. With an ache of anxiety, Margaret had mulled over whether to go ahead with her mission or retract back to the safety of the street and skulk home.

In the end, she had decided that she could not suffer cowards and there was no use in putting this off, so she would have to school her fears and face him head on. She had then gingerly trailed up the steps and after a few nervous gulps, had knocked. However, at first, there had been no response. Perhaps he was out after all. She opted to try again and this time, she was acknowledged with a palpable, yet unintelligible answer. She tried to make out what the person had said, but it was muffled, so one last time, announced herself. After hearing a definite shuffle come from within, she twisted the handle and quietly pushed open the door. However, within an instant, she froze, becoming rooted to the spot. For confronting her, was none other than Mr Thornton, who proceeded to demand she leave at once, in the most offensive language that had ever assaulted her innocent ears.

Silently observing him, she was captured by an onslaught of foreign feelings. He looked completely altered. The Mr Thornton who she had come to recognise, was always so daunting in build, mindset and action. He seemed to tower above everyone else, not just in height, but in a curious bearing of natural authority. His powerful, solid presence had a raw, innate valour about it, which Margaret, unknown until now, had come to find reassuring and comforting. In spite of this, today, he could not have appeared more contradictory. With a pang of distress, she seriously hoped he was not sickening.

Allowing her eyes to ramble, Margaret mused that she was acclimatised to seeing him in his public persona, with his stiff white collar and pristine black clothes, almost figuring as some sort of modern-day knight, adorned in his armour, ready to take on the world. Yet, now, gazing at him in his dishevelled disorder, a strange and peculiarly inspiring notion occurred to her – he was just a man.

Even although she knew it was indecent to stare so keenly at a gentleman, Margaret could not help but take the intermission his recovery presented, to study him more attentively. In doing so, she detected many discrepancies between the Mr Thornton she had presumed to understand and the Mr Thornton who now stood in front of her. For one, he stooped over a little, as he attempted to regain his composure, thus chopping off a great deal of his significant stature. His black mane, which was usually combed back and tamed, was now sticking up at unruly angles, evidently having been repeatedly disturbed. He was also missing his jacket and cravat, instead attired in a grimy shirt and waistcoat, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Margaret was flustered, for she had previously never seen a man in such a state of undress, not even her father or brother. With an unfamiliar tickle that licked at unchartered nooks of her person, she flushed, as she noted the dark, thick hair of his arms and the exposed muscle of his strong jaw and neckline.

Gosh, it had suddenly got oddly hot in here.

Fanning herself, she continued to research him and experienced a strange longing to go and neaten him up and had to actively restrain her twitching hands. She told herself that it was due to her inherent disposition and compulsion to help any struggling individual, yet somehow, she strained to remember a prior occasion where she had wished to groom a man.

Nevertheless, she was soon brought back to her senses, for at this point, he circled to focus on Margaret, and she was hooked by the intense gaze that fell upon her. Nonetheless, she burned with shame and her eyes could not remain on him any longer and they darted to the floor, as she painted on a guise of collected calm.

Mr Thornton was at last at liberty to address the situation now testing him. He progressed to square his shoulders and pull himself up to his full, intimidating height, for first things first, he was resolved to regain at least a small degree of composure and dignity. He wanted to say something, anything, but his voice failed him.

Damn you man!

Margaret grew increasingly embarrassed in the stillness that now filled the void between them and decided it was best she take her leave. Retreating towards the door, she murmured in a tiny and stilted tone: ‘I should go, I am sorry − ’

But he would not let her finish. ‘NO!’ he cried, a little too forcefully and earnestly, as he blundered towards her spontaneously. He chided himself for his eagerness and attempted to discipline a more passive pitch and tenor. ‘No, I am sorry Miss Hale, please _don’t_ go.’ His petition was sincere.

Margaret timidly turned back, accepting his request, but shuffled from one foot to another, sceptical of what to do next. For what seemed like forever, Mr Thornton purely stared at his visitor. She looked different today. He was so accustomed to picturing her sporting her brown hat, that it jarred him to see her in a bonnet. It was a lovely, light coloured one, with thick pale and opaque blue striped ribbons, tied loosely under her elegant chin, which he was so attuned to witnessing raised in haughty defiance – usually at him, he thought fondly. Poking out from the edges, he could detect little ringlets of russet hair that had escaped their confines. Even although the hat was novel, he liked it immensely. Its shape sought to frame her pretty, cherubic face, placing it into a serene portrait. Her complexion had a healthy, ruddy tint, probably due to the warm day outside and the stifling heat of the crammed office. Her dainty nose and cheeks were slightly tanned and were speckled with teensy freckles.

Yes, taking in her glowing features and shining eyes, his breath hitched. His senses hungrily raked over her, from head to toe, taking in every curve and contour of her elegant form. It was like he was a starving man, desperately craving her and frantic to fulfil an appetite that could not be satisfied. It was not that his inspection was lustful or wanton, no, but rather that his mind had pined for her so terribly, that despite the obscene liberties of his searching gaze, it was subconsciously determined to gather and savour every cherished inch of her.

God, he had missed her!

Looking Margaret up and down, he realised that she was in a cloth of midnight blue, which gave her a royal, regal air. Lord, she was incredible! He almost had to stifle a cynical snicker, for he grasped that in their contrasting statuses of dress, they must have made an improbable pair. The princess and the pauper, he mused. He would chuckle at the irony, if he were not so utterly humiliated.

Suddenly spotting her examining his shabby appearance with poorly masked confusion, he began to bumble and fumble around, scrabbling to tuck in his shirt and hunting for his absent coat. He muttered as he speedily tried to smarten-up, scraping his nails through his hair, and making a clumsy and crooked effort to tie his cravat, his fingers slipping like butter. He stuttered something incoherent as his hands whirled wildly in large circles, gesturing towards the mill, trying to vindicate himself.

But what a hash he made of that.

Tongue-tied.

Churning stomach.

Headache.

Wobbly legs.

‘I…emm…it…it has been an interesting day. Machines…faulty …bales…burst…workers…workers not here…sick, I think…yard…ehh…the yard was…emmm…flooded.’ Good grief, he had turned verbally incontinent.

She said nothing in reply, simply nodding slowly, for in truth, she had scarcely a clue of what he was mumbling about, which was rather irregular, for even although Mr Thornton was a man of frugal discourse, Margaret had always found him articulate.

Finally, he positioned himself behind his desk and fixed her with a subdued expression. ‘Miss Hale…I…I can’t apologise enough for the way I spoke to you.’ His speech was husky.

He flinched as he saw her blink, blush, and bow her head in embarrassment. Damn it! No wonder this glorious creature did not want him. He was a brute, an oaf, a complete and utter ass.

‘Really, it is fine,’ she countered coyly.

‘No, it is not!’ he asserted flatly, his timbre brooking no argument. ‘Miss Hale, I must ask your pardon. It has…well it has been one of those unfortunate days and I am afraid my patience was frayed. But that was no excuse for my temper, and I should _never_ have spoken to you, or indeed anyone,’ he amended pointedly, ‘in that vile manner. Truly, I am most regretful and ashamed.’

Margaret peeked up from below her delicate lashes and regarded the begging figure opposite her. She was struck by the penetrating longing in his eyes, the pleading yearning for forgiveness. She gifted him a small smile and it nearly broke his heavy heart. ‘Really Mr Thornton, it is quite alright. I should not have interrupted you, especially when you are so busy.’

Mr Thornton sighed miserably and stroked his forehead. If only she understood that he would gladly welcome her interruption anytime. Giving in to his growing fatigue, he dropped down into his chair, motioning for her to take the one parallel, which she did. Despite an attempt to legislate his thoughts, he knew not what to do, or how to feel, for her unexpected presence had left him disturbed. However, he did conclude that he would not act petulantly, for even although seeing Margaret tortured him more than his outward facade disclosed, he wished more than anything in that moment for the chance to absolve himself, to prove to her that he could be more than, be better than a thug, a bully, an animal.

‘You never need to apologise for seeking me out Miss Hale. My door is always open to you… _always_.’

At his gentle words, both parties raised their heads and their eyes locked intently, and for what seemed like an age, they rested in a spellbound silence, humbly gazing at each other. Unknown to either person, they both shuddered slightly as a shiver snuck up their spines. But eventually, a clamour outside in the yard caused them both to stir and look away self-consciously.

‘Well Miss Hale, how can I help you?’ he issued the question matter-of-factly, unemotionally, but under the surface, his heart was pounding, and he awaited her with bated breath.

‘Oh,’ Margaret replied breathlessly. In all honesty, with all the commotion, she had wholly forgotten the purpose of her visit. She coughed and tried to prepare herself. ‘Well Mr Thornton,’ she started carefully, ‘the thing is, I have been sent by my mother.’

‘By your mother?’ he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ she confirmed. She halted and then tetchily surmised that this would not suffice for an explanation. ‘My mother has expressed a wish to invite you to take tea with us, for you see, she is desirous to consult you in person, in order to express her thanks for your attentive kindness towards her of late, during her illness.’

‘I see,’ was all Mr Thornton could emit.

There was a period of hush between the two of them, while the one lingered cautiously for the other to continue.

Margaret took the initiative. ‘Of course, we fully appreciate that you are very much engaged, (she coloured at the use of this word), at present and sympathise that you may not have the time or inclination to join us. Naturally, my parents would not take offence if that were the case. However, they bade me to come and invite you at any rate.’

Mr Thornton sensed a sting of challenge in her speech. Even although he was sure she had not intended it, he could not help but bristle at the implication that he would not be chivalrous enough to make the effort to accept and honour her mother’s invitation. Perhaps Miss Hale considered him too immersed in buying and selling to care for the more genteel pursuits and pleasantries of civilised society. However, as he was lost deep in thought over this, he had failed to respond.

‘So, Mr Thornton?’ Margaret pressed after an interval. ‘Can you come? This evening, that is?’

Could he come? No, he could not come! He was damned busy, and it would take him most of the day and evening to recoup and complete his work and then he was in desperate need of rest. Nevertheless, in spite of this logical and rational assessment of the situation forming in his head, he nonetheless found that his mouth automatically took over and uttered an emphatic: ‘YES!’

Hang you man, that was too enthusiastic!

But the devil take him, Margaret had him wrapped around her little finger and he would do anything she bid – anything!

Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. She had been so troubled that he would be peevish with her for issuing such a request and would turn her down flat. She had then fretted about how to subsequently explain his refusal to her optimistic mother.

‘Oh good,’ she whispered shyly.

Mr Thornton was not sure, but his zealous senses could have sworn she looked genuinely pleased at his acceptance, although he must surely be mistaken.

Margaret rose and went to shake his hand, but quickly drew it away, worrying that the gesture would insult him. Sadly, the retraction hurt him more, for the idea of touching her was too appealing to bear.

‘Well good, mother and father will be pleased. I shall not keep you any longer. Good day Mr Thornton.’ She spun on her heel to leave.

‘Good day Miss Hale,’ he brooded lamely.

Margaret lightly waved farewell and with a fragile smile, quitted the mill office, closing the door behind her. The instant she left, Mr Thornton exhaled noisily and drooped his head onto the table. Recounting the shambles of the encounter which had just concluded, he began to rhythmically hit his head off the timber. ‘Ahhh! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

Yet, his door once again swung open, and a charming voice called back: ‘Mr Thornton...’

At this sound, he leapt up vigorously and, in the process, smashed his knee into the solid wood of his desk, smacking it with incalculable force.

‘FUC….forget something?’

Mr Thornton had to stop himself from screaming out yet another filthy curse, as he writhed in excruciating pain. He had initiated his exclamation with a loud cry, but had finished it in a wretched, wailing whimper, as he tried to restrain himself. He was so angry, because in reality, he was not a habitual abuser of uncouth language, but did undesirably fall into the habit when his temper was particularly nasty.

He scanned upwards to see that once more, she was just staring at him with a look of utter bewilderment. Oh God! He was so mortified!

Margaret scrutinised this hubbub and was tempted to ignore it, but her ever nurturing nature got the better of her. ‘Mr Thornton…were you banging your head on the desk?’ she enquired probingly.

‘Yes,’ he whined. Oh, blast it man! No need to admit to it!

‘Why?’

Lord of all that is good and holy! This would be the perfect time for the rapture! 

‘Oh emm…well,’ he faltered, massaging his throbbing and most likely fractured limb, as he floundered for an explanation. ‘I had a bad headache and was attempting to get rid of it.’

John − you are honestly the most useless bastard!

‘Oh,’ she said thoughtfully and pondered over this clarification. ‘You know, you really should not do that,’ she advised gravely. ‘It will probably make your headache worse and could cause severe damage. A hot towel and vinegar always works for me,’ she finished brightly.

At this suggestion, John Thornton’s head bucked up and he surveyed the woman before him raptly. Was she serious? In that moment, John could not help but bequest her a sincerely warm smile. How this sensational girl could endure the nonsense he had put her through in the past eleven minutes, and still have the courage and conviction to indulge him and offer words of care, was beyond merit.

God, she was adorable!

‘Right, thank you, I shall try remember that,’ he agreed with amusement.

On assessing that Mr Thornton was looking at her most oddly, Margaret wrinkled her nose and cocked her head in puzzlement. Oh dear, perhaps he really was ill.

‘Hmm yes, I just forgot to ask. When can we expect you? Is eight o’clock tonight suitable?’

Propping his hands on his desk to steady himself, Mr Thornton merely replied with a quaking voice: ‘Eight will be just fine.’

Unfortunately, Mr Thornton then raised his fingers to inadvertently chafe at his stubbled jaw. The predicament was that while leaning forward, his fingers had unluckily landed in a few hidden splodges of ink, which he had spilt and attempted to mop up not half an hour earlier. When he returned the slender digits to his face, he then proceeded to impart copious smudges of blue-black blotches across his skin.

Margaret watched all of this with fascinated astonishment, but alas, she could not endure demeaning him any further. Therefore, as quickly as she could, she again uttered her excuses and promptly scarpered.

Mr Thornton remained stationary for several heartbeats, just to be sure that she had definitely gone. Straightening up, he realised there was hardly any time left before the investors were due to arrive, so he had better make ready at once. There was now no opportunity to return to the house and change properly, so he would have to fleetingly wash the dirt away in his hand-basin and shrug on the spare shirt and jacket he kept hereabouts. Limping with ferocious agony over to the small mirror, he glanced up, but then started. Glowering at himself with disbelieving eyes, he registered the splotches that insulted his features.

If it had been possible to die of shame, John Thornton would have expired right there and then.

Picking up the mirror in an iron grip, he aggressively brought it crashing down on a nearby surface.

‘FUCKING HELL!’ he yelled.

But as he hurled the object, it cracked and smashed, the glass then shattering and flying in a manic frenzy in all directions. Splinters large and small found a home in his hand and stabbed into his velvety flesh. Droplets of blood emerged, and narrow streams ran down his wrists.

Squinting down at the damage, he cringed. With a vanquished air, the faintness which had come over him earlier seemed to claim victory over its adversary and he slumped his back against the wall and slowly sagged to the floor in defeat. There he slouched and there he stayed, sprawled out in stunned silence. After several dazed minutes had elapsed, all he could do was laugh hysterically and gasp in awe.

_‘_ Uhh! _That woman!’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to repeat a note that I had at the end of the last chapter...again, I hope nobody was too offended by John’s swearing. As I said previously, I had considered whether to include swears for John, as I am not a big sweary person myself and don't like inserting them with no purpose. However, I had recently seen it used for him in another fanfic and felt it suited him in certain circumstances. As I said before, I see John as a bit of a, "man's man," deep down, who has grown up in a rough town and also spent years in poverty. Therefore, I feel swearing in private or in his head is suitable in this chapter, as it helps to echo the angst and stress he is experiencing. Also, do remember that even although the past few chapters feel long, for John, only about one hour has passed, so he has been stuck with his angry thoughts. Furthermore, I thought about what words to use and after some research, have found that all the words given were circulating during the 1850s. However, I specifically chose some which are more common now, as their insertion into the text will hopefully resonate the themes and feelings of this passage more with modern readers. However, I promise that he will not be swearing for all the chapters. But I do apologise for any offense.
> 
> Thanks again so much for the kind comments and emails from the last chapter, they are all very appreciated! :)


	7. ANTICIPATION

CHAPTER 7:  
ANTICIPATION

_Anticipation_.

Without doubt, the single defining word that governed what all the players of this narrative thought, did, said, and felt, for the remainder of that Thursday afternoon, was anticipation.

That is, Margaret and Mr Thornton, both equally dumbfounded by what had just passed between and before them, anticipated seeing each other with a complicated intermingling of agitation and animation. Anxiously, they both speculated as to what further pitfalls befell the precarious condition of their already insecure relationship.

Mrs Hale, on the other hand, was keenly anticipating Margaret’s return, itching to hear the results of her errand and whether it had borne the fruit she had both desired and predicted. She hoped, and indeed trusted, that Mr Thornton had agreed to take tea with them this evening, and with this faith secure, she enthusiastically plotted the details of her intricate and impending plan.

Of course, Mr Hale – as always – was blissfully unaware of all that was unfolding around him and continued in his unruffled day none the wiser. His wife secretly thanked the good Lord for her husband’s perpetual lack of insight, for at pivotal times such as this, it was best that he did not get under foot, lest he disturb the delicate balance. 

When Margaret escaped Mr Thornton’s office, she raced down the steps without a backward glance, as fast as her petite legs and abundant skirts would tolerate. She scurried so swiftly, that she obliged more than one befuddled labourer to dodge and swerve in all manner of irregular directions, simply to prevent from colliding into her, for fear that they or she would be scathed in body or property. Gawping after her, they scratched their heads, guessing at what could have made such a pretty little thing scarper so. Surely, she had not been at the mercy of the master’s filthy temper, nay, not such a bonnie lass as her. No, it could not be that the bad-old-bulldog had barked or bitten, for as the spinner girls giggled in their gaggles, they had seen the miserable miser smile at her most tenderly in the past – a mythical tale in itself.

As Margaret hastened to depart, she was dulled to her vivacious surroundings, not detecting the robust pursuits of mill life and the rowdy chatter of mill people. She felt sure she had heard a cry, followed by a faint crashing sound coming from behind her, something alike glass smashing, but the noises had been soaked up and coalesced into the hazy hum of the hustle and bustle that teemed in the vicinity. 

Once she quitted the property and joined the vigorous thoroughfare of Marlborough Street, again, people had to sidestep hither and thither, like some sort of merry dance, just to evade the scooting Miss Hale. She seemed to mindlessly knit her way through the horde of the pulsating city, with its grimy boulevards, energetic businesses, and swarms of people, all shifting and elbowing their way here, there, and anywhere. Puzzled faces followed the astonishing young lady, pondering what could have possessed her to behave in such a foolhardy way. 

When Margaret finally arrived back at Crampton, she bolted the front door and instantly flagged against it with a thud, relieved at being cocooned in the shelter of her little home once more. There she lolled and wilted for some time, unable to budge. Panting, she placed a small, gloved palm upon her breast, trying to calm the erratic rising and falling of her bosom. Clenching at her stomach, she felt a pugnacious queasiness balloon in her belly and squirmed as a numbness crept up her shins and thighs. 

Finally, she tiptoed up the stairs, taking care not to tread on any creaky floorboards and alert the household to her reappearance. Once inside the refuge of her room, she fell onto the bed, overwrought by the mayhem that muddled her mind. 

Twisting and rolling around in an effort to get comfortable, Margaret reluctantly conceded that she had no choice but to retrace what had just transpired, for at present, it was all in such a hopeless jumble. Maybe, if she could just focus, she would be able to untangle and unpick the disorder that distracted her usually sharp instincts.

Now, where to begin? The problem was that no matter what angle she approached it from, the sober facts were not promising. For a start, to her misfortune, Mr Thornton had most definitely been in. Attempting to scrupulously recall the interview, her concentration lapsed, and Margaret shivered at the memory of the strangest encounter she had ever experienced. But wait! Despite the eventful oddity of it all, he had still said yes. He had said yes, had he not? She had expected that he would say no, but…he had said yes…

Margaret snapped out of her trance and gasped, as an unexpected truth captured her. Curling up into a ball and hugging herself tightly, she resolved that it was time to acknowledge something which she had been striving to ignore. Breathing deeply, Margaret readied herself for a confession.

‘I like Mr Thornton.’

She waited, for what she was not sure, perhaps for lightning to strike her for her shameful admission. But nothing happened. She furrowed her brow in meditation and reasoned on it a little harder. Yes, she was certain she liked him. But why, she was not aware. And to what extent, she was even less confident. 

Oh! This was a disturbing revelation indeed! 

Had she always liked him? Assuredly not, for she would have known. Or maybe, just maybe, she had lied to herself…no…maybe.

Did she want his attentions? 

Did she want his affections? 

Nibbling her lip, she thought the matter through, but clarity was proving allusive. Had Mr Thornton truly desired her to be his wife? Had he not only proposed because of the riot and her rash behaviour? Indubitably, he had only done it out of duty, for she knew him to be a loyal believer in and servant of responsibility, for such a quality had dictated his whole life. In some ways, she rather admired him for it. No, he could not genuinely have hoped she would say yes. In reality, he was most likely relieved by her refusal, but just offended by the ferocity in which she had voiced it.

But then again…

It was all too confusing. Even if he had meant every word, who was to say that he still wanted her now? Perhaps she had damaged their acquaintance beyond repair after her unforgiving snub and scathing remarks. No, she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling and in truth, she was scared of finding out. All she knew, was that he was due to visit in six hours. How on earth was she going to keep her wits intact until then?

Flying up from the bed, she was struck by the desire for distraction. Had she not earlier agreed that she would write again to Frederick? Yes, she had, and she would do so presently. The Hales had heard nothing from the absent son and brother since writing to him seven weeks ago and Margaret had started to privately fret. It was feasible that the letter had been lost in transition. Again, perhaps the post was being abominably slow, due to the swell of the sea or the roughness of the roads. It was conceivable that he had received it but deemed it unsafe and unwise to acquiesce and come back to England but had felt too afraid to reply with such disappointing news. Or it was conceivable that Fred was already on his way. Still, no matter the cause of his silence, she concluded that no harm would come from writing again, for after all, a sister did not need an occasion to correspond with her only and most beloved brother.

Launching herself into her commission, she hunted in vain for some paper in her personal desk, but after yanking the drawers ajar, found that no spare parchment was to be had. However, there was one drawer, which she did not dare plunder, for she knew what loitered within and could not bear to look. Muttering, she opted to slink down to the drawing room, where she knew there were supplies to be retrieved. Slipping away, she quietly stole through the house and after peeking around the doorframe of the parlour, was relieved to find it deserted. On discovering the necessary materials, Margaret nestled at the table that reposed in an alcove and dipped the nib of her pen into the ink, ready to etch her missive.

It did occur to her that she possibly ought to write to Edith too, for she had neglected to do so in many weeks, not since…well, not since he had last been here. In truth, Margaret longed to pour out her heart to Edith and confide her burdens. Maybe her cousin could offer some counsel, for she was a married lady, who was no stranger to how a rapport, an association, a bond, or a profound understanding should express itself, should evolve between a man and a woman. Then again, as much as she adored her cousin, who was more like a sister, Margaret grasped with regret, that such declarations would be risky. For after all, as dear as Edith was, she was undoubtably flighty and easily shocked. Margaret dreaded that her account of all that had passed between her and Mr Thornton would be too much for delicate Edith to abide and she would surely faint. This would then ensue in a retort full of scolding, but beneath the surface, Edith would be gleeful at having received such a sensational scandal. No, writing to Edith was tempting, but it was not prudent. So, resigned to keeping her troubles secret, Margaret began to scribble her letter to Frederick. 

  
_My Dearest One…_

Then suddenly, it hit her that she might solicit the help of Henry Lennox in appealing Fred’s case. Certainly, she had found Henry affable when in London and had not sensed that he bore her any ill-will. Therefore, she felt confident that he would not resent offering his guidance in the matter, for after all, he would not give Fred away, not when he was connected to the family himself. Besides, he was considered a most clever and successful lawyer and Margaret was convinced that they would benefit from his advice, even if to simply provide them with greater clarity on how things stood. Yes, she decreed that she would mention the initiative to her brother.

Gazing up to collect her strewn thoughts, Margaret’s eyes idly fell upon a tall armchair, which rested in a corner of the room, by the fire. Blinking slowly, she considered it. In that instant, the inanimate object gave her a strange sense of comfort. It was Mr Thornton’s chair. That is to say, it was not his chair expressly, but because they had so few visitors to the house, he seemed to be the only one who ever sat in it, rendering it his seat. Observing it with curious sadness, she realised that the chair – no − the room − no− the house, somehow felt emptier without him positioned there. With an anguished ache, Margaret fathomed that even although she was dreading his visit, she would not rest contentedly until he was restored to his proper place in the chair, within their home, amongst their family, in…she swallowed hard…in her life.

But she was not able to dwell on this much longer, for in a trice, Dixon sauntered in and with a grouch, announced that the mistress would like to see Miss Margaret directly. With a frown of foreboding, Margaret dropped her pen and trailed solemnly towards her mother’s room and her mother’s inevitable inquisition. 

* * *

  
Mrs Hale sat-up in bed, as bright as a babe on Christmas morn. Humming gayly, she toyed with a stray flower that weaved between her limber fingers, slowly fondling its pale-pink petals. Then, with an impish indulgence, she instigated to pick them off, one at a time.

‘He loves her,’ she began, tearing at one silken bud and allowing it to flutter to her lap.

‘He loves her not,’ she mused, repeating the action.

Finally, with a contented grin, she looked down at the single remaining sepal on the near-naked stalk and murmured, ‘Ah, he loves her…I knew it.’

Picking up a fresh blossom, she started the process again. ‘She loves him.’

‘She loves him not.’

Mrs Hale amused herself with this game for some time, as she patiently awaited the advent of her daughter. She had almost gone mad with expectancy and was desperate to learn whether she could commence the next phase of her scheme. Although, at this word, she recoiled, as scheme seemed too abrasive and conniving a phrase, for really, well-intentioned matchmaking could never be so sinful.

Whilst Margaret was out, Mrs Hale summoned Mary Higgins, who had inched into the sanctum of her sick room with all the cowardice of a lamb being led to you know where. She had shuffled forward, her head bowed in submission, fretful as to why she had been called upstairs. When the mistress had invited Mary to sit, the poor girl went as white as snowy wool, almost fainting with fright. Mrs Hale hastily reassured her that nothing was amiss, and that she merely wished to partake in a little trifling small talk, for she was a lonely old lady after all.

In truth, this lie made Mrs Hale a touch abashed, for she really had a negligible interest in talking to Mary Higgins, sweet creature as she may be. No, Mrs Hale’s motive was much less selfless, as she merely wanted to cross-examine her for information. For after all, Mary was born and bred in Milton, making her the ideal candidate to interrogate for tittle-tattle about a specific mill master.

Still, Mrs Hale had been docile enough in her charms; good-naturedly exchanging pleasantries about Mary’s day and the wellbeing of her family. She was tactful, as she did not wish to be considered nosey, like a prying parson’s wife, for such a trait was not only vulgar, but might give her whole game away prematurely. Moreover, she knew that Mary would be too respectful of her betters to tell tales without scruples. No, this type of sleuthing required careful coaxing. All the same, her forbearance ended sooner rather than later, and she sprung to the point, like a cat pouncing upon a mouse.

After gingerly broaching the topic of Milton life, Milton mills, and Milton men, Mrs Hale casually dropped into the exchange that they might be expecting Mr Thornton for tea this evening, as if it were the most innocent and irrelevant of references. She attested that due to her ailments, she had not spent as much time getting to know Mr Thornton as she would have liked, and that made her feel terribly guilty, as he deserved more attention as her husband’s particular friend. After employing all her well-bred cunning to steer the dialogue in the direction of her choosing, naive Mary’s tongue soon slackened. 

Poor pet, she really was no match for the Beresford wit.

Eventually, extracting all she could from her blameless informant, Mrs Hale feigned fatigue and Mary left her to her own thoughts, the dear child knocked for six, by the unfamiliar social boundary she had just spanned. Well, Mrs Hale had certainly reaped a few more revealing pieces to add to her puzzle. As she already knew, the impression was that Mr Thornton was married to his mill and magisterial duties, never lavishing time or attention on anybody or anything else. Even although the workers clearly thought him a bit of a bully at best, and a brute at worst, they did grant that he seemed to have more scruples than the rest of the town’s ruling elite. Mary also let slip that there was a rumour doing the rounds that the hard-hearted master had finally fallen in love. 

‘Ooh, really?’ Mrs Hale had reacted, her eyes wide in a blend of pantomime and authentic intrigue.

Mary nodded bravely, for apparently the gossip was circulated in hushed tones, but nobody was quite sure which lucky lady to congratulate. It was here that Mary dropped Anne Latimer’s name into the report. At this, Mrs Hale’s face clenched and her lips pursed. This snippet of intelligence was not as welcome as the rest. Although, after a smidgen more snooping, Mrs Hale was reassured that the hearsay had not been verified and it could all be a fanciful fib. Yes, Mr Thornton’s affections could still belong to her Margaret. However, the last and most fascinating tidbit of all, was that people had noticed a marked shift in him of late. Evidently, since the strike, Mr Thornton had become distinctly more aggressive and reclusive. Mary deduced that this was down to the disruptions to trade and Mrs Hale would probably have agreed, if her shrewd mind had not also connected the timeline with a definite alteration in her own daughter’s behaviour and mood.

It was as she was pondering this and playfully plucking at the unfortunate floret, that her reflections were halted. Gazing up, she saw Margaret had silently appeared and was slouching against the wall, looking quite forlorn. She also noticed that her daughter had changed into a most striking and stately midnight-blue dress, which she had not been wearing earlier. Mrs Hale took this in and added it to her ever growing list of proof that her suspicions were accurate.

‘Hello darling,’ she called pleasantly. ‘Do come and sit by me, little one.’

Margaret conformed and perched herself on a nearby stool. With her eyes cast low, she wished the ground would swallow her up. Spotting the stripped flower on her mother’s knee, she tilted her head and asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Hmm? Oh that. Nothing, nothing,’ Mrs Hale replied dismissively. 

Margaret ventured nothing more but continued looking subdued.

‘So,’ the mother began, ‘how did it go? Did you see him? Pray, what did he say?’

Margaret gulped, as she tried to find the strength to verbalise what had taken place. ‘Yes mama, I did see him. He says that he can come tonight at eight, as you wish.’ She had resolved not to include the more disquieting aspects of their exchange, for how she could possibly explain or rationalise any of it, she had no idea. However, unfortunately for the mortified Margaret, the mischievous Maria Hale was not satisfied at leaving it there.

‘Oh marvellous! I knew he would. But, do tell, how was he? I have heard he has not been himself of late.’ Casting a sidelong glance at her daughter, she attempted to assess her response. Mrs Hale was gratified to see that Margaret bristled and shuffled in her seat. Ahh, so it had not gone smoothly then – just as she had predicted. 

‘Oh well…’ Margaret stammered weakly. Her mind flooded with the image of him standing there, dirty, dishevelled, disorientated, and perfectly darling. 

She blushed furiously. 

‘He is clearly remarkably busy, mama.’ She recalled his rambling explanation of the struggles the mill had withstood that morning. ‘He has been preoccupied; I think.’ Her eyes evoked the sight of his sullied skin, messy hair, waistcoat streaked in grease, and sweat-soaked shirt, through which, she could distinguish the shape of his strong muscles. 

She trembled.

‘And he did look a little drained.’ She thought about the dark circles that outlined his fierce blue eyes. ‘And, he seemed to be slightly…well stressed.’ With embarrassment, she remembered the choking, and the table, and the ink. Margaret felt a keen sense of sadness over Mr Thornton’s struggles, for somehow, she so hated to see him suffer.

‘Oh, dearie me, what a terrible shame,’ Mrs Hale tutted seriously, although her frisky nature was well and truly tickled by this account.

As Margaret was staring off into the distance, lost in her own world, Mrs Hale smirked to herself. Yes, her scheme was coming together charmingly. Harvesting the final petal from the impoverished flower, she breathed, ‘She loves him.’ 

* * *

  
As the whistle blew to signal the end of the toiling day, Mr Thornton was roused from his grave contemplations. He rose from his chair and paused by the gritty window, inspecting the throng of men, women, and children, who filed out of the mill buildings and began to trudge their way home. He wondered what they were each retreating to. Some would be setting their course for the public house, quick to throw away their hard-earned coins on ale. Others would be scuttling to their overcrowded dwellings, ready to tend to their bairns and prepare their beggarly suppers. 

He considered how many of them were returning to joyful homes, where the family would congregate around the hearth in the remarkable unity that only poverty can nurture. Then again, he questioned how many were reverting to their houses in dread, awaiting the inevitable fist, or belt, or tongue, or goodness knows what, that would scar them inside and out. Too many he thought, too many. With a troubled scowl, he had witnessed that since the strike, many men had turned more vindictive and violent than before. Indeed, he could see it in their eyes; the twitching monster of malice, lurking within, the fiend that is born of suffering and misery.

He spied a woman waddling past, with tear-stained cheeks and an eye as black as coal. There had been a scuffle between two of the spinners today, as one had accused another of lying with her husband and bearing him a child. The skirmish had caused a deplorable scene and he, along with two others, were forced to enter into the tussle, just to haul them off each other, before angrily demanding they pack it in at once or face immediate dismissal.

In reality, Mr Thornton knew the pregnant lass, a mere child, had been compromised by one of the other factory masters, a Mr Hogg, who was infamous for having the morals of a tomcat. He had taken advantage of the girl in the secluded shadows of the mill and she, wretched thing, had been seduced by his flattery and false promises. Once she had lost her appeal, he had cast her asunder and she had pleaded for sympathy at the other factories, yet each master had simply hooted, branded her a tart, and waved her off. It was not until she had turned up on the steps of Marlborough Mills, her clothes tattered, her frame scrawny, and her eyes imploring, that Mr Thornton had taken pity and found her a place, even although there were no positions available. In the past, he may not have been so charitable, but now, the doctrines of a particular lady weighed heavily on his mind, and she influenced his every decision, whether she realised it or not.

It made his blood boil with fury to think of the way employers, those in positions of power and trust, so often abused and violated those in their care. They were no better than scum. No, as a meticulous master, he never had the time to interfere with any women, and as a moral man, he had no interest in using them for his own sordid reward. To John Thornton’s conscience, a woman, no matter her station, should be respected and sexual intimacy − as tempting as it was − ought to be saved for the sanctity of the legal and spiritual union of matrimony.

Rotating back to his desk, he surveyed the mess of papers that littered the breadth of it. John was not surprised that he had been unable to get any profitable work done all day. His meeting with the investors had been as expected − a complete waste of time. They had shammed fascination, but he sensed that they were purely excited at the novel experience of touring an industrial workshop, like a child exploring a sweetshop. They had surely heard myths of machines devouring infants and stern supervisors beating the exhausted bodies that lay collapsed in crumpled heaps. With such horror stories to be had, no wonder the macabre flocked to see the spectacle, the circus known as manufacturing.

Nevertheless, despite their lack of sincerity, it was undoubtable that Mr Thornton’s countenance that afternoon had left much to be desired. He had joined them at the agreed time and received one or two baffled looks regarding his scruffy appearance. Then, he had spent the next hour present in body, but absent in attention. He was able to speak mechanically, motioning towards the critical parts of the mill, explaining the processes, and providing statistics concerning production and profits. Nonetheless, even although he performed all of his lines, it was obvious to anybody observing, that he was miles away.

In all honesty, he was relieved when the visitors had taken their leave and he was free to skulk back to his office and once again, shut out the wearisome world. Sagging down, he took this opportunity to think about what had occurred earlier. He could still not believe that Miss Hale had been here, in his office of all places. He even doubted that the whole thing was real and considered accosting the workers, to see if any of them had spotted her, just so he could testify to his sanity. Deeming this to be nonsensical, he resorted to the marginally less ludicrous solution of pinching himself every now and again, just to confirm that it had been no fantasy.

‘Ahhh!’

He grimaced at the scores of blunders and offences he had committed. Oh help! He had sworn at her, why, oh why had he done that? And he had choked - utter fool! Next, he had stood staring at her, imitating a perverted letch, which he was sure must have made her extremely uncomfortable. After that, he had babbled incoherently about goodness knows what, whilst looking like a caricature of a vagrant street urchin. Later, he had made her think he was stupid enough to bang his head off a table like some sort of dimwit. Then to finish off his horrendous show of idiocy, he had somehow managed to spread ink across his face – the clown! In fact, he could not even recall when or how that final degrading gaffe had occurred.

Oh, it had been an unmitigated disaster! Examining his poorly bandaged hand, he rubbed a tender finger over the deep cut that still throbbed and stung, mocking his folly. Ugh, it could not have gone worse! 

Then again…his head snapped up and he creased his brow pensively…she had invited him. Surely, she would not have agreed to do so if she had been thoroughly against it. But again, maybe she had been coerced, but somehow, he could not see Mr or Mrs Hale having that influence over their stubborn daughter – God, what a marvel she was. Still, when he had said yes – a little too eagerly, he recounted with a cringe – she had looked…well, she had looked relieved, pleased even, as if she had hoped he would say yes. Why would she want that? 

Plainly, she must shrink from the idea of seeing him, of being stuck in the same room as him. Certainly, the last time John had seen her, she had surged out of his path and hidden in a side street. He had witnessed her approaching and readied for a brief and clumsy conversation, but it never came. Instead, he had felt a knife of renewed rejection pierce his heart when she had purposefully and most desperately avoided him. That is what made it even more unexpected when she had sought him out today. No, she must not want him to go. Absolutely not. Then again…for a second, he could have sworn she had looked at him differently. Hmm, yes, there was something there that wasn't there before.

Ahh, that woman! One minute he felt paralysed by the sheer force of her character; unable to control neither limb nor thought. Yet, on other occasions, his whole being would flare up at the mere idea of her, and he would combust into a fiery inferno of feeling. Today, there would be no prizes won for guessing on which side the coin had landed. With tingling nerves, he reminisced about how she had been that afternoon. Regal, confident, resourceful, sweet-tempered, alluring. He felt his body instinctively stiffen, but shook himself, for such notions were inappropriate – enticing, but nonetheless, wrong.

Running agitated fingers through his ruffled hair, John sighed. For despite his better judgement telling him to stay clear of this woman who had bewitched him, cursing his soul with chaos, he knew he had to see her. She had become his obsession. Many men were addicted to drink, others to opium, some to carnal appetites, but for John Thornton, his entire existence depended on Margaret Hale. She alone could satisfy his cravings and dangerous as it might be, he knew that he would go to her this evening, insanely and impatiently longing for whatever morsels of her notice his sorry self could cling to.

By the time the whistle had sounded at six o’clock, John Thornton realised that he had been daydreaming for at least two hours – you worthless twit. Looking at the work before him, he was annoyed, but not surprised to learn that he had got blasted-all done. Groaning with resignation, he gathered and packed away his ledgers, deciding to admit defeat. 

  
  
Crossing the cobbles and heading towards the house, John Thornton offered up a silent prayer that God, in his infinite mercy, would grant him the valour required to survive this ill-fated day. But, unfortunately for all the players of this narrative, the day was very far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! 
> 
> I wanted to thank people for their kind comments and emails regarding sweary John. Again, I don’t really like swearing, but I do stand by my point that I feel it’s relevant to his character’s background and that it would potentially come out in private and in his own head when he’s dealing with the sort of personal and professional turmoil that he is just now. But rest assured, we’ve pretty much seen the last of his swears in this story.
> 
> Finally, thank you too for your thoughtful comments and emails regarding the pace of the story. I do appreciate that it’s not snappy and that’s not everyone’s cup of tea. But to me, every story has its own purpose and theme, and this one is not about action but is about the gradual and natural development of people’s thoughts and feelings. But don’t worry, soon we will be having some more action.
> 
> Thanks again and take care!


	8. FIFTY-FOUR MINUTES

CHAPTER 8:

FIFTY-FOUR MINUTES

Striding into the reassuring familiarity of the mill house, John Thornton was relieved to know that his mother and sister would not be present, for they were currently dining with the Latimers. John’s attendance had likewise been requested, but he had declined, on account of the volume of work that demanded his attention. This was the main justification for his spurning of the solicitation, but frankly, he rather suspected that the others harboured a ploy to push him and Miss Latimer together − a plan he did not support one little bit.

Anne Latimer was amiable enough and he had no real reason to dislike her, for after all, he was a single man, and could do whatever he darn well pleased. He was just not in the mood to be played like a pawn in a tasteless game. Besides, his pathetic heart was otherwise engaged, gifted to a woman who had no desire for it. Either way, he was grateful for his family’s absence, as for one, he could not temper their pestering about his state of dress, his injuries, or whether he had eaten enough. But more so, he was thankful that he would not have to defend his intention to visit the Hales to his mother, who no doubt, would have a few choice words to say on the matter.

Darting up the stairs, he elected to take a bath. He instructed the servants to make it hotter than usual, anticipating that the scorching water and climbing steam might sharpen his spent spirits. Wincing at the scalding intensity that assailed and near enough stewed his foot and ankle, John lowered himself into the copper tub. He scrubbed at his long limbs and strained muscles with rough zeal, spitefully hoping that his scouring would not only cleanse his skin, which was smeared in grit and sweat, but would rid him of his embedded feelings of humiliation.

Noting the large and darkening welt, which dominated most of his knee and shin, he fingered it softly, just to be certain that it was not fractured. Flinching, he glowered at the fact that the bitter battering and bruising he had felt at Miss Hale’s refusal had previously been hidden within, but now, he had a bloody great shiner on the outside to prove it, like some sort of taunting mark of shame. After he could wash no more without blistering his flesh, he reclined in the bath, allowing himself to be soothed.

John decided to divert his focus by deliberating on business affairs. He embarked on mapping out his strategies for the following days and weeks, itemising his numerous tasks, appointments, and correspondence in his head. Matters at the mill had become more complicated than ever since the strike and he seemed to be constantly tackling fresh trials. Despite what others might think, the mill mattered more to him than affluence and position. No, those things had their merit, he supposed, but to him, the place and the livelihood held a much more personal importance.

After near enough a decade of constant deprivation, scrimping for every coin, just to keep a roof over his mother and sister’s head, it was a relief to finally be able to work his way up to becoming a master and John was proud of himself for finding something he excelled at. So, that is why, for the past five years, he had devoted himself to Marlborough Mills, because to him, the buildings were not just brick and mortar, but rather, it was the first place he had truly felt at home, truly felt secure, truly felt alive, in ten long years.

But now, all that had changed. In the past, his work had been a solid foundation to clutch at, after an age of instability. No matter what happened in his personal life, or in the ever-shifting world around him, he could count on the logic that was machines, manufacturing, and Milton. However, since the walkout and riot which had been almost seven weeks ago−

He stopped abruptly.

An excruciating truth slashed at his core.

Almost seven weeks?

Yes, that was right, so that would mean that he…he had proposed six weeks, five days and eleven hours ago. Overcome by a sudden wave of resentment, John plunged below the surface of the water, allowing the clear liquid to swallow him whole from top to toe. He resolutely held himself there for as long as he could. Exactly why, he could not be sure. Possibly, he was trying to control his despair. Or drown his agony. Or cleanse himself of his misery. When he could take it no longer, he emerged with a gasp, fighting for air.

Collapsing backwards, he closed his eyes and cursed his worthless self. Six weeks and five days, which meant, that if they had had a short engagement, −which of course, he would have advocated for – then they could have been getting married any day now. They could almost have been a bride and groom, Mr and Mrs Thornton, husband and wife, John and Margaret, together forever.

He glimpsed the book of Shakespeare’s works that lay on the floor, for he had been studying the wordsmith, in an attempt to make some sense of his own confused feelings. The exercise had been fruitless. With a moan, he muttered that the poet had been useless, for the writer’s words of love never-ending only sought to remind John of his own unrequited passions that would surely follow him to the end of his days. Well, that was a depressing thought, if there ever was one. It was because of this, that last night, he had torn a few of the pages out in a childish tantrum and had subsequently hurled the book against the wall.

But it was no use, for strive as he may, he could not stop thinking about her. Staying awake night after night, he had established that his heart was not broken, no, it was splintered, because fragments of its shattered remains had sought to spear and slice into every other vital organ, draining him of his strength, of his life.

Shakespeare had said it best: _“I love you more than words can wield the matter, Dearer than eyesight, space and liberty.”_

John Thornton hated feeling like this – truly loathed himself. He had never been one to indulge in self-pity or regret. Weak was not a word that he had ever let define him. Life was hard and he had to be harder if he wanted to conquer it, to survive. But somehow, in the past few weeks, he had become like a lost boy, unable to find his way home to his former self. John Thornton had fallen in love and love had broken him.

‘Huh,’ he snorted pigheadedly, slapping the rim of the bath with his palm. ‘She thinks I want to possess her? Possess her − my foot! She possesses me body and soul − the madam!’

He had recounted everything in his head ten, a hundred, a thousand times over. The catalogue of what he had done wrong was endless. He should have made his feelings clearer sooner. He should have told her subtly, gradually, in the way of a gentleman, that he admired her, that he found her beautiful, intelligent, inspiring, and utterly lovely. He should never have gone to see her the day after the riot. Or maybe he should, but ought to have restrained himself and remained chivalrous, merely asking after her health, and thanking her for her service.

But he should have left it at that.

He ought to have given her an interval to recover from her injury, to gather her thoughts, to establish her feelings, and then he could have calmly told her how he felt, without any shouting, without any anger, without any expectations. He should never have proposed, even though that was his dearest wish, but instead, suggested a courtship. He felt more confident that then, after taking the time and effort to woo her, that she could have looked upon him more favourably, come to like him – love him even.

_"She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is woman, and therefore to be won.”_

As poetic as that may be, he knew that Margaret was no prize to be won. No, she was not a trophy, but a treasure. Either way, John was not above trying to win the woman of his dreams. Indeed, he would smugly revel in that sweet victory, proudly proclaiming it from the rooftop, for all to see and hear.

Perhaps if he had followed this more reasonable and patient path, she would have consented and now, almost seven weeks later, instead of lounging in a bath licking his wounds, he could be lounging in a bath, devising his more optimistic and victorious proposal of marriage. Then again, it was easy to be wise in hindsight and love does have a habit of turning the sanest of men into the most pitiful of jesters.

_“Love is blind, and lovers cannot see, The pretty follies that themselves commit.”_

Still, John knew that he was a man of unswerving thought and action and no matter how much he scolded himself, going back, he would probably freely have made all the same impetuous mistakes again. For what was a man shackled by love to do, other than fall at the feet of his lover?

_“I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, ‘I love you.”_

Oh, stop it! That bloody bard. John swore he would burn that blasted book later.

John scoffed at his mother’s remark that a girl’s love was like a puff of smoke that changes with every wind. He knew that some women would be fickle with their affections, but not Miss Hale. He knew that when Margaret eventually tendered her love, it would be willingly, that she would gift the man of her choice with the most fierce, abundant, loyal, and sacred devotion. Whoever that man was, he would be a lucky beggar and a prince amongst men.

Suddenly, his eyes swooped to his bedside table, where he cast a fleeting and defensive glance over the bottom drawer. Quickly, he tore his gaze away and stared resolutely ahead.

Feeling the water at last go cold, he unenthusiastically clambered out, ready to begin the arduous task of dressing. The sensible part of him dictated that he should not go to the Hales. After all, he had much to attend to here and he desperately needed to rest. Besides, it would only hurt to see her, to be so close to her and know that he could not reach out and touch her, hold her, claim her, and whisper words of worship in her ear.

But as much as his rational side warned him of the impending dangers, he could not help surrendering to his soul, which had him captured and bound as a slave, and would drag him there, ready to serve his mistress. Yes, as much as part of him was hurt and writhing in bitterness, the truest part of him yearned to be with her. It was like a tug of war between his head and his heart and where Margaret was concerned, his foolish heart always seemed to have the final say.

_“Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight.”_

Right! That was it! Where was that impertinent book? Ah-ha, there it was! Picking it up, John hastily flung it into the flames of his bedroom fire. That would show him, the old sod. He would even bet the fellow had never been in love a day in his life. Certainly, he had never met Margaret Hale.

But the fire taunted him still, conjuring up the words: _“Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.”_

‘Oh, shut up!’ John growled. Grabbing the poker, he jabbed at the smouldering pages, just to ensure they were well and truly getting their red-hot comeuppance.

Standing naked in front of his full-length mirror, he was arrested by a peculiar feeling of self-consciousness. For in the first time in John Thornton’s life, he felt acutely uncomfortable in his own skin. He had never been a vain man and paid trifling attention to his appearance, for he thought such conceits pointless and pompous. Nonetheless, in the insecure cavities of his mind, he had always judged himself rather unappealing in looks.

That is to say, he did not consider himself ugly, but he knew he lacked the smoothed and marbled attributes of a true gentleman. He was altogether too dark, too severe, and too angular in his features. Embarrassed, he attempted to hide by folding his burly arms around his abdomen. But in doing so, he suddenly felt terribly empty. For it was in wrapping his bulging biceps around a body – albeit his own – that he appreciated that after holding her for the briefest of moments, there, outside, on the mill steps, his arms now ached for her, desperate for her to burrow there and make their protective circle her home.

Shaking himself from this self-absorption, he was now faced with the formidable challenge of what to wear. Staring at his open wardrobe, he felt as helpless as a child, who had not yet learned to discern a sock from a slipper. Even although he had never been bothered by the fads of fashion, Mr Thornton had always managed to choose his clothes, dress himself, and look smart enough to satisfy society. But today, for once, he felt oddly anxious. More so than ever before, he wanted to impress, to look just the ticket, as his old grandmother used to say.

He pulled on a starched cream shirt, but quickly tossed it aside crossly, which was something he never did, for he was so careful with his possessions. He then picked up another, but that too met a similar fate. Snatching at every stitch of clothing at his disposal, he slung and sprawled them across the mattress, in hopes of finding inspiration. His blue waistcoat called to him, not because it was considered rather fine and more than one young lady had indiscreetly complimented him on it, but because it reminded him of the sensational dress Miss Hale had been wearing that afternoon. But thinking better of this, he chucked it away, for fear that she would think him incredulous if he turned up matching her.

At long last, he settled on his outfit and began to button up his shirt, but with a glare, he realised that he was putting it on inside out. Frustrated, he tore it off and propelled it to the ground, before kicking it to some desolate corner, to contemplate the error of its ways. But looking over with a startle, he registered that the garment was not alone. No, it had company, for it now languished with a band of fellow miscreants, comprising of an irksome jacket, a disobedient cravat, a wayward shoe, and a subversive suit brush – insolent, the lot of them!

Oh, damn, damn, damn! He was usually so regimented in his dressing.

His eyes flitted once more to the drawer, but he quickly wrenched them away. No − he must not look there.

Grappling to fix his cravat, a task which he had done so often, he could practically do it in his sleep, John found that his fingers slipped and he constantly arranged it crookedly, or too tightly, thus strangling himself. With a grunt, he yanked it off, whipping the side of his face, and resumed his endeavour for the eighth time. As John’s hands made their way to his neck, he tried not to think of her nimble ones, which at times, he could still feel clinging to him, as they had done on that fateful day. Though, at the time, he had been too preoccupied to appreciate the wonder of their delectable proximity, he now constantly longed to pull her near and share another intimate embrace. 

Finally festooned in what felt like his armour, John, meticulous to the last, started to tidy the dispersed bits and pieces that he had abandoned. Patting down the rumpled bedclothes, he quivered, as a memory snuck into his mind. For on the day that he had last visited Miss Hale, while John had dressed, his eyes had regularly skimmed to the bed. He had permitted his fervent thoughts to fantasise at the idea that soon, she too might sleep there, next to him. Then every dawn, for the rest of their lives, he would be privileged to wake and behold her in the private, warm nest of their marriage bed.

He had tried to banish such ideas, for he knew they were fanciful at best, and sinful at worst. And he admitted that it was not the first time he had imagined her in his bedroom. No, although he would take this secret to his grave, he recollected that on the night of the dinner party, he had dreamt of her. He had envisaged them lying together, nude, embracing, shamefully close, and with her head trustingly cushioned on his chest.

He had not dared to peep beneath the protective layer of sheets, which shielded her innocence, for even in this blissful fiction, he refused to debase her so. Instead, he had hugged her securely and with one hand, his fingers had twirled amongst the ringlets of her hair, and he had ghosted his lips across her face and jaw, peppering her soft skin with gentle kisses. Then, the other hand had instinctively crept below the blankets. Avoiding her forbidden parts, it came to rest on the swell of her stomach, dotingly caressing there, as he felt the precious stirring of life within. When he had awoken, John had been struck with such agonizing disappointment, that he had considered entombing himself beneath the quilts and resigning to a day of self-indulgent wallowing.

With that last gloomy thought weighing on his conscience, John Thornton stole a peek at his pocket watch. 

Fifty-four minutes to go.

Filching up his gloves, he rushed out of the room, before he had the chance to talk himself out of going. But, just before he did, he threw one last aching glance towards the drawer and the secret it guarded.

No − I _mustn’t_ look.

* * *

Margaret stood spellbound.

She regarded herself with silent curiosity in her mother’s mirror, adorned in a gown sent by her aunt as a gift, not three weeks earlier, making it fashionable by London standards. It was a funny sort of in-between dress, which was too fine for daytime wear, but not quite extravagant enough for a high-society ball or dinner party.

It was ivory in shade and had a web-thin layer of material, which on the underside, tiny and sparkling speckles of frosty beads had been intertwined with the fabric. It gave the garment a glorious shimmer, almost like a glittering snowflake. The bodice was prolonged and slimming, enhancing her feminine waist. An ample skirt jutted out from her curved hips and was prissier than Margaret was used to, but not of the garish variety, which she detested. The elbow-length sleeves were so sheer and delicate, that you could detect her slender shoulders underneath. Certainly, the dress may have been too plain for the frilly tastes of ladies such as Fanny Thornton, but to the little girl inside Margaret, she felt like a princess.

‘Mama,’ Margaret whispered dreamily, her fingers dancing across the graceful detail. ‘It is not too much, is it?’

Mrs Hale had surprised her daughter that evening, by taking an unusual interest in her presentation. Maria Hale had always been a stickler for her children being well-turned-out, as was befitting of both their class and position as children of a clergyman. To be sure, there were no snotty noses, sullied breaches, or spoiled petticoats in the Hale household. Consequently, Margaret had habitually been encouraged to look pretty, but never provocative. However, since Margaret had always been a sober dresser by choice, she had become used to her mother paying minor attention to her attire. Nevertheless, on this occasion, Mrs Hale had a great deal to say.

‘Of course not, my poppet. Your Aunt Shaw has been kind enough to send you this splendid present and we must show her due thanks by wearing it before it goes out of style,’ she tittered.

Seeing her daughter embellished in all her ethereal loveliness, Maria Hale wept. Her perfect girl. So strong. So clever. So selfless. So beautiful. She was so proud of her Margaret. Dabbing at her wet cheeks, she smiled secretly as she thought just how much Margaret looked like a bride. Perhaps she would be denied the privilege of seeing her children on their wedding days, but this moment, this was God’s way of offering his faithful servant a compassionate compromise. Yes, maybe the dress was slightly too much, but my goodness, Margaret was an absolute angel.

Sensing her mother trembling, Margaret hastily glided over to her, her skirts ruffling as she went, and knelt in mute entreaty.

‘Oh mama! Whatever is the matter?’ she asked. She worried that her mother’s spirits had once again faded, or that she was fretting over Frederick still, and whether they would ever be reunited.

Mrs Hale smiled and cupped her daughter’s roseate face. Looking deep into the imploring eyes that regarded her with such tender feeling, the mother was overcome by love. ‘Oh, my darling,’ she stuttered between sobs, ‘There is nothing the matter. I just…It’s just that you mean so much to me, that is all.’

Margaret exhaled in relief. Mrs Hale reached beneath her shawl and took out a small embroidered box of red velvet. After stroking it for a minute in hushed nostalgia, she gently offered it to her daughter. Margaret raised her eyebrows in question, but accepted the item, opening the lid with wonder. Then, she stopped. She issued a short, sharp breath and her eyes went wide. For inside, was the most fragile and finest pair of earrings she had ever seen. She touched the simple jewels, which were so dainty, they were akin to droplets of dew, dangling like pearly tears.

‘Mama!’ she gasped. ‘They are perfect.’

Mrs Hale nodded peaceably. ‘They were a gift to me from my mother…on my wedding day.’

Margaret lifted her gaze and observed her mother with astonishment. ‘I did not know that; I have never seen them before.’

Mrs Hale shook her head. ‘No, I hardly ever wore them. They are so delicate, you see − too sentimental.’ Removing her eyes from the heirlooms and fixing them instead on her most precious jewel, she revealed, ‘They are yours now, Margaret.’

Margaret’s rosebud lips parted in awe. She was about to argue, but somehow, she could not, for instinctively, she appreciated the significance of the gesture – her mother would not be wearing them again.

‘But mother,’ she said seriously, ‘I do not understand. What is all this about? The dress? The bequest? The fussing over how I look? You…oh mother, you have been so unwell, but you have been different today, revived, yet strange. Please−,’ she pressed, ‘what is it all about?’ Margaret looked up with all the innocence of a newborn.

Mrs Hale simply snuffled. ‘Nothing,’ she answered plainly. ‘Nothing is the matter. It is just…I know that I do not have long left,’ she confessed mournfully. ‘But I want to make the most of our time together…before I go.’ The two women shared a look of mutual sympathy, both wordlessly vowing to say no more on the matter.

Eyeing Margaret’s cascading locks glistening in the firelight, Mrs Hale ventured upon an enchanting notion, that would add the finishing touch to the pretty picture that was her cherished daughter. The ailing woman picked up her hairbrush and began to tenderly stroke at the knots of chestnut tresses. Feeling a lump of sorrow clog in her throat, she thought on how she would forfeit anything for her two children to both be by her side, and if God had let her, she would have rested in that divine vision forever.

With a faraway voice, she softly sang a tune:

_“Faithfully guided, draw now near,_

_to where the blessing of love shall preserve you!_

_Triumphant courage, love so pure,_

_joins you in faith as the happiest of couples!”_

But Margaret was unaware of her mother’s chanting of the Bridal Chorus, for she was too busy watching the clock, which forewarned that in fifty-four minutes, he was due to arrive.

* * *

Trudging against the sting of the crisp night air, John Thornton marched towards Crampton with feverish indecision. To go, or not to go, that was the question. 

His feet carried him instinctively on the all too familiar path, as his mind raged in a storm of unrest. At times, he pleaded with himself to turn around, to abandon this futile mission, and to retreat to the safety of solitude. At these moments, he felt his legs slow down and on more than one occasion, sensed that they began to veer voluntarily, back from whence they came. But then, he would be consumed by a desperate longing to see his dearest girl, and his limbs would speed up, as he near enough sprinted towards her.

I want to go.

I don’t want to go.

I _have_ to go.

Don’t be stupid, why would you do this to yourself?

I love her, that’s why.

But she doesn’t love you back − you fool.

I _must_ go.

I _can’t_ go. Stop! Turn back.

Too late − you’re going.

He began to wonder how she would receive him, how she would act, and how she would look. Simple, yet beautiful, he mused with a tremor. He embarked on remembering every dress, every skirt, every blouse, every shawl, every pair of gloves or earrings he had ever seen her in. He evoked the distinct memory of her at the party. God, she had looked incredible and acted impressively. Even although he had tried to spend most of the night ignoring her, mainly for appearances sake, he had known exactly what she was doing and what she was saying each second of the evening, for one eye and one ear had always been trained on her every motion. He would have given anything to send everyone else home, solely to be alone with her. Not that he had wished to indulge in anything improper, but rather, that he longed to simply sit and eat with her uninterrupted, talking for hours about everything and nothing, just two people enjoying each other’s company. Well, probably more him enjoying her company. With a minimal attempt at restraint, he allowed his mind to wander and he indulged in this sweet and recurring flight of the imagination.

However, before he knew it, John Thornton had arrived in the minor neighbourhood of Crampton, with its poky houses and narrow streets. He snaked mindlessly amongst the people and structures, ignoring their suspicious glares at seeing the unpopular master hereabouts. As he approached the proverbial terrace, where their humble dwelling lived peacefully in its corner, he ventured to visit the market and acquire preserves for Mrs Hale, who he understood was still unwell. He strolled towards the modest collection of stalls, which held a vibrant array of fruits, vegetables, meats, spices, and flowers, their rich aromas and colours assaulting the senses, squabbling for attention.

The grocer warily conversed with the sombre mill owner, who ordered his preferred berries, apples, and plums. However, Mr Thornton’s severity was not due to incivility, but because he was preoccupied in contemplating his battle plan for tonight. There was no way he was going to allow a scene like that of earlier to repeat itself, with him acting like a bumbling buffoon that could not keep his flailing body, nor his foul mouth in check. No, he would have to strive to be more in control and promote the persona of respectability and refinement that befitted the Thornton name. He also determined that he would act aloof towards Miss Hale. This was partly to salvage some of the decorum that he had relinquished this morning, but also, in a desperate plea to safeguard his bleeding heart. Yes, this woman may have been conceived to be his personal treasure and torment, but the bulldog was not going down without a fight.

After concluding his business at the booth, he proceeded to the house, his mind fixated on fortifying his strategy of indifference. With a sigh of resignation, he braced himself and beat a firm rat-a-tat-tat on the door. It was at this point, as he adjusted the weight of the basket of treats on his right arm, that he noticed a curious weight on his left. Squinting down, he near enough jumped out of his skin. For in his hand, was a splendid bouquet of roses.

‘WHAT?!’ he shrieked. John spun wildly in circles, flapping urgently, hunting for a saving solution. What to do? What to do? Aside from chucking the flowers over the side of the steps and discarding them on the street, he could think of no salvation.

Oh hell! He may as well have shown up on their doorstep tarred and feathered.

But it was too late, for he heard somebody begin to unbolt and open the door.

For the second time that day, John prayed. But this time, he implored that God in his boundless wisdom and empathy, would smite him to smithereens. Unfortunately, God was not so obliging.

With a final wave of farewell to his dignity, John Thornton stood tall and resolute, ready to face his doom. God! This woman – his treasure and his torment – she would be the death of him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a big thank you to ElizabethHades for her help in providing comments and corrections on this and the last chapter - greatly appreciated!
> 
> And whoop whoop! You will be pleased to know that the chapters that focus on the character's processing their thoughts and feelings are pretty much over and we can now focus on developing the plot.


	9. THREE ACT DRAMA: ACT 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So I am going to be really cheeky here and have some fun! This chapter is in three parts, or three "acts." As I work through it and edit, I am going to publish the three acts separately over the next 24-48 hours. So I hope you enjoy the suspense and it would be lovely to hear your thoughts, comments and predictions about the different parts. :) 
> 
> Please note that the three updates will all be published as separate chapters, "Three Act Drama: Act 1," and then Act 2 and so on.
> 
> Also, a big thank you to Elizabeth Hades for her kind help in critiquing and commenting on this chapter. What a gem! There are a couple of hidden Easter eggs in the three acts as a shout out to her and her N&S story, Foolish Passions.

CHAPTER 9:

THREE ACT DRAMA: ACT 1

Mr Thornton’s appointment to take tea with the Hales would prove to be both a comedy and tragedy alike. Much like a play, the drama unfolds in three acts, therefore, it only seems right to set it out accordingly.

  
_Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more..._

_But when the blast of war blows in our ears,_

_Then imitate the action of the tiger;_

_Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,_

_Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage..._

_Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,_

  
_Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit..._

_I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,_

_Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:_

_Follow your spirit, and upon this charge_

  
_Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'_

**ACT 1: Once more unto the breach**

John Thornton stood straight and held his head high, as he anticipated his ruin. Even though his composed outward facade gave no indication of the anxiety within, he felt every hair on his body bristle, every nerve tickle, every trickle of sweat, and every vein throb, as he waited with bated breath. The few seconds it took for the front door to open, felt like an eternity, and during this time, he impatiently wondered who would greet him. He half-hoped, half-dreaded it would be her.

As the hinges creaked and the frame began to swing ajar, he inhaled a gulp of air and…oh. The door finally opened, and the light from the hallway spilled out onto the street, illuminating the scene before him. His spirits withered, for he was not met by the lovely Miss Hale, but rather, the ominous Miss Dixon. John swallowed thickly as he took in her unyielding expression. Determined to stand his ground, he matched her stern gaze with his own steadfast one. For what seemed like an age, Dixon simply remained in the entryway, her generous frame blocking his path, like a plump soldier guarding his fort. She looked him up and down suspiciously, as if he were some sort of vagrant, and then sniffed dismissively. He had obviously not passed muster and was therefore still on her blacklist of objectionable visitors.

The irony was, that John Thornton was not accustomed to feeling intimidated. He had such a commanding presence about him, in terms of both size and temperament, that he was used to being the most dominant person in the room. For one, his colossal height generally placed him head and shoulders above other men, rendering him a Goliath. Secondly, owing to the incalculable power of his strapping back, arms, and hands, he was quite sure that if put in a boxing ring, he could scrunch his fist and knock any opponent from here to Timbuktu. And yet, when it came to Miss Dixon, despite her being a woman and half his vertical stature, he was constantly left quaking in his boots. No matter how much he would pull himself to his full peak, square his shoulders, puff out his chest, lift his head, narrow his eyes, and fix her with an unwavering stare, he still felt sure she could take him in a fight any day.

Dixon merely snorted, and stomped away, abandoning him to enter the house and close the door of his own accord. If it had been any other servant, John would have felt insulted, but in Dixon’s case, he was just relieved that she had not made him beg or barter for admittance. Besides, there were more pressing things on his mind. While she took his coat, gloves and hat, his senses instinctively snapped into alertness. His eyes skimmed here, there, and everywhere, and his ears pricked, ready to note even the slightest sound. But alas, _she_ was nowhere to be found.

Dixon led John upstairs and into the familiar parlour. As soon as he reached the modest room, he felt his body unconsciously relax and the burdens of the past seven weeks begin to drain away. John had always found the Hale home to be a calming cocoon. This is what had drawn him so instinctively to this new and foreign family, who on the surface, held neither import nor relevance to Milton life and Milton ways. They were so very different to anybody the Thorntons had ever known, and it was for that reason precisely, that John had formed an attachment to the humble newcomers.

Even although John could not complain about his home, nor his family, there had always been a relative coldness to his world. He cared for his mother and sister with a profound protectiveness, and he knew that the former cherished him with a rare and unconditional love. But there was a sense of formality to the Thornton family, which gave way to a lack of warmth. Furthermore, their home could be better described as practical, as opposed to snug and comfortable. His mother had always been pragmatic, which meant that everything acquired for the mill house was either functional or had the objective of demonstrating their ascending position in society.

During the countless daydreams that John had started indulging in since the Hale’s arrival in Milton, he had begun to predict how Margaret would redecorate his home, or rather yet, _their_ home. He speculated as to which fabrics or colours she would prefer. Would she order new drapes? Change the wallpaper? Upholster the furniture? Acquire silken bed linen? And fill the gloomy corners with vases of flowers? Sitting in his drawing room, pretending to read the newspaper, John had spent many a satisfied Sunday afternoon meditating on this, but now, it made him miserable.

The Hale household was monastic in contrast to his, but infinitely more inviting. There was a cheerful and contented serenity to be had here, and for a man who had struggled with economic and personal insecurity for the best part of fifteen years, that feeling of peace was more precious than he could ever describe. Truly, John would be lying if he said that in the last few months, the place had not come to feel like home. It was just regrettable that home was now tainted with the shame and sadness of all that he longed for but would likely never gain.

Striding forward, he was surprised to find not only Mr Hale expecting him, but Mrs Hale too. On John’s numerous visits to his tutor, he had only met the woman on three occasions. He had assumed that this was due to her evident deterioration in health, but also, he thought with tartness, because she probably felt she had little in common with him. For after all, what interest could a well-bred southern lady have with an uncultivated northern lad? With self-loathing scorn, he understood how true this was for more than one Hale female.

‘John!’ Mr Hale piped up, as he hurried to welcome his guest. Taking his pupil’s hand, he shook it with gusto, beaming widely from cheek to cheek. ‘I am so very pleased to see you my friend, it has been too long, far too long,’ he said, the ghost of glumness traversing his wrinkled brow.

John returned the handshake ardently, but felt a ripple of guilt, for avoiding his friend for so long. He sincerely appreciated his lessons with Mr Hale, for not only did he receive a comprehensive education, but he savoured the intimate bond that the unlikely pair had cultivated. What he would be less free to confess, was that some vulnerable part of him had come to regard Mr Hale as the father figure that the child in him had hungered for.

But he had been a negligent surrogate son, persistently staying away all these weeks. It was not Mr Hale’s fault that John had made a hash of things with his daughter, rendering his visits to their home too torturous, and at the same time, too tempting to tolerate. No, he saw that Mr Hale found equal comfort in their discussions, which rendered John’s absence selfish and unforgivable, and so he resolved to put aside his bid for self-preservation, if it meant remaining loyal to a valued friend.

With candour John responded, ‘I am sorry Mr Hale, I know it has been too long, I…I am afraid business at the mill has been all consuming of late.’ He felt a niggle of contrition at his falsehood.

‘Do not apologise my friend, no need,’ Mr Hale bolstered, patting John on the shoulder. ‘You work hard and that is only to be commended. We are just grateful that you could spare us the time, are we not my love?’ Mr Hale continued, waving towards his wife.

Mrs Hale, who was nestled on a corner settee, and who had been studying their caller with a canny eye, simply bowed her head graciously. ‘Indeed Mr Thornton, we are most gratified that you could take the time to see us. We only hope you enjoy your evening,’ she stated, gesturing regally for him to take a seat. With an amused titter, she observed him like the cat who had got the cream, fully determined to enjoy her evening. Indeed, she conspired to play Cupid’s accomplice this night.

As John sat, his senses resumed their keen vigilance, straining to pick up any faint indication of her whereabouts. It suddenly occurred to him that she might not be here at all. With his previous optimism quashed, he considered whether the idea of seeing him again had been too awful to endure, so she had devised a scheme by which to avoid him altogether. After the debacle of their earlier meeting, he could not blame her. Still, he petulantly protested being denied the chance to see Margaret, for after all, if he had to suffer this sweet nightmare, then it was only right she should too. With a childish sulk, he denounced her for being so unfair. He could not stand the suspense and refused to wait patiently for confirmation of this fresh rejection. He opted to take the bull by the horns.

‘Will Miss Hale be joining us this evening?’ he asked, endeavouring to school his tone into one of disinterest. 

Mrs Hale stirred at this mention of her daughter. Ah-ha, he has made the first move!

The game was afoot!

Registering his fervour, she decided to dither, as if she had not grasped his question, watching with delight as he helplessly struggled like a worm on the end of her hook. Finally, she took pity on him, clarifying with an: ‘Oh yes, Mr Thornton, Margaret will be along shortly,’ 

She noted the shift in his demeanour with glee, as the poor soul tried to hide his relief. 

‘She is only tending to the tea things and will be here presently.’

‘Oh...good...good,’ was all John could murmur, his face rigid, but his spirits soaring.

In the silence that followed, Mrs Hale spied the intriguing pile of items which now sat at Mr Thornton’s feet. Examining them, she let out an unexpected squeal of excitement when she spotted a rather telling detail indeed. 

‘What is all this then, sir?’

Confused at first, but after scanning the floor, Mr Thornton grimaced. How or when he had managed to purchase the flowers was quite beyond him, and he even privately admired himself for this new-found gift at subconsciously conducting multiple tasks at once. But hang it all, if that blasted Dixon had been more forthright, then she would have taken the evidence of his folly away with her, thus saving him from making a bloody fool of himself − again!

‘Oh these?’ he replied hoarsely. What excuse would satisfy? ‘Oh uh – well Mrs Hale, I understand that your appetite has not been robust of late, so I took the liberty of bringing you some fruit and other small trifles.’ Ah, thank the Lord, that would do! He privately congratulated himself for his quick intellect, a sign surely that the Thornton of old was still alive and well within.

Mrs Hale nodded, but was not even remotely interested in the food, as Mr Thornton had been in the habit of sending her such delicacies for some time now. No, she was far more riveted by the lavish bouquet. The sight was too wonderful for words, for not in any of her predictions of how tonight would unfold, had she envisioned he would bring such an offering for Margaret. Poor pet, he must really be besotted. 

‘Lovely,’ she said glibly, ‘and those?’ she added, prodding a finger at the conspicuous arrangement.

John coughed uneasily and struggled to form a sentence. ‘Oh these?’ he blustered, as if he had never seen them before. Plucking at the thorny stems, he appeared uncertain of himself and delayed, as his mind scrambled for a reason. ‘They are for you,’ he explained, a definite strain to his chords, as he stood to present them to the mistress of the house.

Fiddlesticks, thought Mrs Hale.

‘Oh, how very kind. Look Richard, Mr Thornton has been most gallant, bringing an old lady such generous tokens, my-my.’ 

It did not escape anybody’s notice that she declined to take the blossoms from his outstretched hand. Mr Thornton may have been wily in his pretexts, but in Mrs Hale, he had well and truly met his match.

‘Yes, too thoughtful. But really, I feel most selfish accepting all these gifts, sir, it is too much.’ Peering up with innocence, Cupid’s accomplice made ready to fire her first arrow. ‘Why not let Margaret have the flowers, Mr Thornton? Hmm? I am happy to share and after all…she will _adore_ them.’

The arrow hit its mark.

‘Besides, roses are her favourite, one could almost believe you chose them for her.’

Oh! The look on his face was more entertaining than any comedy play.

Mr Thornton’s eyebrows shot up, as he took in this suggestion. ‘Oh, well – I – emm – ehh−’ He seemed ready to protest but could think of no polite way to do so. Dropping back into his chair with an air of one vanquished, he capitulated with a stunned, ‘As you wish.’ Perhaps the Thornton of old was dead and buried after all.

‘Splendid,’ Mrs Hale chirped, clicking her teeth. ‘Now then, I wonder where _our_ Margaret has gotten to.’


	10. THREE ACT DRAMA: ACT 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So, I really hope you enjoy Act 2/3. This chapter has been a lot of work, so I would really appreciate any comments or thoughts about it. I would particularly be encouraged to hear if there are any moments that you liked best, or any lines of dialogue or narrative that stood out to you. Take care, enjoy, and Act 3 will be along soon.
> 
> Again, thank you to ElizabethHades for your helpful critiques and comments.

CHAPTER 10:

THREE ACT DRAMA: ACT 2

_Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps._

**ACT 2: Cupid’s Arrows**

Margaret had been hiding in the kitchen when Mr Thornton arrived. She was in a terrible state, relentlessly pacing up and down the flagged floor, like a caged animal. When Dixon answered his knock, Margaret pressed herself against the larder door, listening for any clank, clatter, or clang that would reveal his frame of mind. She could not be certain, but she perceived that his footsteps were different, less confident than normal. That could not be good. He obviously did not want to be here.

Once she heard him ascend to the upper floor, she obstinately concealed herself below for as long as reason would permit, for her stomach was so full of fluttering butterflies, she felt sure she would swoon at the mere sight of him. When she could not rationally delay a fraction longer, Margaret collected the tea things and made her way up to the drawing room, ready to face him. For after all, if she had to suffer this sweet nightmare, then it was only fair he did too.

John started as he heard someone climbing the stairs. Could it be? He leaned forward unwittingly, almost tumbling out of his seat, as he stretched towards the sound. In that instant, he was no longer a fully grown man, regressing back into a giddy schoolboy. In the past, if John had encountered men who behaved like scatter-brained twits around a lass, he had judged them to be sentimental fools. But oh, cruel irony, he had fallen for a girl harder than any man alive. As she joined them, he sprang to his feet and bounced about like a restless pup. She placed the tea tray down on the table, straightened up and apprehensively caught his eye.

John stopped.

He stilled.

In that blink of time, as he beheld her, John felt sure he had died and gone to Heaven. For never in his wildest dreams had he imagined such a vision. 

She was wearing the most beautiful gown that glittered in the soft candlelight, sparkling like the robe of a fairy Queen. The dress had a flattering shape, drawing attention to her slight waist and the pleasing curves of her chest and hips. The sleeves were almost translucent, so that he could see her slender shoulders and marvelled at the sight of her fair arms, which were usually covered.

Her hair, her luscious locks, which he had longed to stroke, were worn partly down. He could not believe it. How often he had fought the urge to stride over and unpin her tresses, allowing them to tumble down her back, and thread his fingers amongst them, caressing the silken ringlets. But tonight, her hair was in a novel and flattering style, which was half up, half down. He smiled at the knowledge that it was just as he had imagined: Neither straight, nor was it a mass of corkscrew curls, but it fell in loose waves, that twisted gently at the ends. In the tint of the room, which blushed in the firelight, he could see that her colouring was not solely chestnut, but that there were specks of darker brown and red, which were woven in like a tapestry.

But most of all, John noticed that she was wearing white. Feeling his heart skip a beat, he cursed God for this cruelty. It was one thing knowing that Miss Hale would never be his bride, but another to see her so purely attired, as if she were the bride of Christ himself.

Yes, Margaret was so unfairly beautiful, that it did not escape anyone’s notice that for the second time that day, John slowly lifted a thumb and forefinger to his wrist and pinched himself, an action which received a quizzical look from both Mr and Mrs Hale. Saints preserve him! This was not one of his dreams; she was real. So was the withering fact that she would never be his.

But John was not the only one ogling. Margaret had always found Mr Thornton attractive, which was part of the problem, for she hated feeling so drawn to a man she believed she could not esteem. Tonight, dressed in his finery, she was reminded what a striking figure he was. Studying his face, she realised just how appealing she found him. He had the most defined, chiselled bone structure, and she had to stop herself from reaching out to embroil her fingers in his thick, raven-black mane. But it was his arresting eyes that captivated Margaret most of all, and before she knew it, their gazes had united, and they were both trapped in a trance.

They remained like this for some time, simply staring at one another, breathing heavily, their bodies slowly inching nearer. 

Their exchange did not go ignored, for Mrs Hale was watching them agog. My, my, my! If she had any doubts before that the pair cared for each other, this scene silenced them all. Oh, how marvellous! This evening was proving more gratifying than she ever could have hoped. Still, if the plot of this drama was ever to move forward, it would be up to her to jostle things along.

‘Ah, there you are my pet, excellent. Is this not wonderful? Mr Thornton has been able to join us at last. And look, he has been thoughtful enough to bring me some treats,’ she declared, indicating to the basket resting at her side.

John and Margaret were dragged back from their spellbound reverie and shook themselves from their stupor.

‘Oh yes,’ Margaret admitted a little absently, ‘That is very kind indeed, Mama.’

Clearing her throat, Cupid’s aide sharpened her second arrow. ‘And look, he has brought you flowers.’ She hid behind her fan, trying desperately to stifle a giggle. Oh, this was going to be such fun!

Mr Thornton whipped his head round towards Mrs Hale and scowled at her. Oh yes! He is fetching when he is cross! He certainly has quite the bewitching smoulder! No wonder Margaret likes him.

Margaret regarded Mr Thornton with profound surprise, not believing that he would do such a thing. Would he? Warily stealing a look in her direction, he tendered the posy and explained, ‘Yes−I−I brought your mother some fruit and thought, and well…I thought you might like these,’ his stammering words lacking even a scrap of chivalry.

Hell’s bells! How could one man possibly attract so much humiliation in one day? Surely the laws of probability must be askew.

To make matters worse, his nerves caused him to thrust the roses towards her a little too forcefully, almost smacking her in the face with the abundant bouquet. Oh heck! He did not want to be responsible for causing her yet another head injury.

But John halted as he peered at her and saw her lips twitch. Was…was she pleased? Still, his heart wept at the token, for he ached to be at liberty to give her flowers every day.

‘Oh,’ she murmured, accepting the gift. ‘They…they are quite exquisite, Mr Thornton,’ she confessed shyly, as she studied the vibrant spray of red, white and yellow. ‘And what glorious hues, I…I am impressed that you thought to choose them.’

Mr Thornton solemnly concurred. For he still had no recollection of ever selecting the blooms, let alone purchasing them. But seeing them now, he understood exactly why he had. Red roses for the passion he bore for her. White roses for the unblemished integrity of his intentions towards her. And yellow roses because of how happy they could make each other, if only she would allow it, and because he instinctively knew yellow was her favourite colour.

‘Thank you,’ Margaret whispered, as quiet as a mouse, before rewarding him with a delectable nibble of her bottom lip and a bashful grin. Well, that did it! John knew that he would gladly face mortification every hour of every day if it gave her even a second of happiness.

Margaret laid down her present and began to tend to the tea things. With a private quiver of the mouth, he eagerly observed her motions, as her lithe hands arranged the delicate china. He felt a peculiar pleasure in seeing her prepare his tea so expertly, appreciating that she remembered how he liked it. Well, he thought, she must think of him, even if just a little. He yearned to reach out and use her fingers as sugar tongs and had to restrain himself from allowing his hand to creep forth. And yes, she was wearing her bracelet, which filled him with amusement. How John longed to gladly fritter away the hours, playfully lifting it up her arm time and time again, and watch with fascination, as it slid to her wrist. Ah, the simple joys of love.

‘Now John,’ Mr Hale began, perking up, ‘You must try these ginger snaps Margaret made. Really, she is the most accomplished baker!’

Mr Thornton cast a chance glance at her, for there was more than one interesting morsel to this revelation. 

‘You…you baked them?’ he queried with astonishment.

Margaret pouted, which quite disarmed him. ‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘It may not be usual in your house, Mr Thornton, for ladies to help in the kitchen, but I am not too ashamed to admit that I baked them,’ she finished irritably. 

God, he adored her!

‘Come now Margaret,’ chuckled her father. ‘I do not think John intended any impertinence.’

‘Undoubtedly not, Miss Hale,’ Mr Thornton amended. Certainly, John had no qualms at the idea of Margaret in a kitchen. That is, he did not approve of her slaving away by a hot stove or breaking her back scrubbing floors. But his hard shell did soften at the notion of her cheerfully occupied, as she kneaded, stirred, and sugared the treats before them. But that was not the best part. ‘It is just…well…ginger snaps are my favourite.’

Margaret eyed him curiously. ‘I know,’ she retorted flatly, as if the fact were obvious. ‘That is why I baked them – they are for you.’ She reddened at her own rash and overfamiliar words. Little did she know that they were like a balm to his bleeding soul. Attempting to correct her misstep, Margaret added, ‘Mrs Hades next door gave me the recipe. I thought I would sample it for your visit…that is all.’

Margaret was embarrassed, Mr Thornton elated, and Mrs Hale squeaked with delight.

The next half hour was spent in pleasant conversation, as the four people present talked civilly about this and that. They discussed the mill, the condition of the cotton trade, the recent influx of railway labourers to Milton, and even the damned weather. Yet, as every minute ticked by, Mr Thornton and Margaret stubbornly refused to acknowledge one another. They each directed their comments and attention towards their elder companions, with painstaking effort to convey mutual indifference. To Mrs Hale’s mind, this attempt at apathy was as eloquent as a sonnet. They doth protest too much, methinks! This gave her an idea.

‘What are you reading these days, Mr Thornton? Still on the Greeks, I imagine,’ she sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Margaret has been reading Shakespeare, do you know his writing well?’ 

It occurred to her that Margaret had never previously shown much interest in the writer, but of late, the mother had spotted a well-worn copy of his works that seemed to follow her daughter around from room to room.

Mr Thornton knitted his brow. ‘Yes, I do believe I have come across him.’

‘And do you like him?’ Mrs Hale nagged.

She noticed that he glared at the fire. ‘We had a falling out.’

Mistaking his meaning, Mr Hale interjected amiably. ‘Yes, Shakespeare can be tricky, even for the most astute scholars. His language is so unusual, that we do not always know what to make of it. But you should persevere John, for there is a wealth of wisdom to be found amongst his pages, I believe. Maybe we should take him up in our lessons.’

‘Excellent!’ Mrs Hale chimed in, clapping her hands like a child. ‘You can borrow Margaret’s copy before you leave. Perhaps the two of you can discuss it together sometime. I am confident you young people will find much to relate to.’

‘Very well,’ John grumbled. It seemed he was never to be rid of the pretentious poet. John would gladly put a plague on his house any day.

While Mr Hale continued to chat to John about the benefits and ills of modern machinery, the old man was so engrossed that he inadvertently tilted his cup and spilled the contents onto his lap. He yelped as the scalding tea burnt through his clothes and into his skin. Margaret instantly rose to assist. After the commotion had been dealt with, she caressed her father’s hand and the two shared the most intimate of smiles. At this, John was overcome by a raging jealousy that strangled his heart. How silly. How greedy. How infantile. Of course a father and daughter should share such affection. But John would forgo all his worldly possessions, just for her to bestow such a tender look upon him. Rebuking himself, he knew that such sentiments were ridiculous, for what use was a smile? A smile could not feed you, or warm you, or keep a roof over your head. But the Devil take him, he knew he would sell his soul for one of her smiles − just one.

‘How clumsy of me,’ Mr Hale wittered, as he patted down his stained knee with Margaret’s handkerchief, which John eyed meanly. ‘Now John, you were going to tell us about the strike and that unfortunate riot,’ he persisted.

Mrs Hale did not miss that the two subjects of her experiment gave each other a fleeting glance of apprehension. What could that be about?

John shuffled uneasily in his seat. ‘Yes, the strike was regrettable, as it has pushed back our production targets significantly and has weakened our client’s confidence.’ Without looking directly at her, John tried to gauge Margaret’s reaction, but found she was wilfully staring at the wall opposite.

‘That is a pity John, such a pity. I do somewhat sympathise with the grievances of these men, but I do think strikes cause more trouble than they are worth. They do not foster harmony. And to think of the damage they caused your mill,’ Mr Hale tutted, ‘I assume you will be pressing charges.’

At this, Margaret’s head swung round. Drumming his fingers against his thigh, he decided to be honest. ‘No Mr Hale, I will not.’

Margaret’s pupils dilated. ‘Why not?’ she asked before she could stop herself. All eyes in the room fell upon her, including John’s.

‘Well Miss Hale,’ he started, ‘I will not deny that part of me wished to punish them for the destruction they instigated and the fear they caused my mother and sister.’ Here he paused and wavered, considering how best to proceed. ‘But I concluded that it would be heartless.’ 

Margaret twisted around, giving him her undivided interest. But she said nothing, instead silently imploring him to continue, which he did. ‘I may not fully sympathise with their actions, Miss Hale, but I do appreciate that they have perhaps been through enough. The strike is over, their campaign is lost, and their spirits are shattered. After so much struggle on their part, it felt infantile to inflict further unnecessary anguish. They have been punished enough. I will not rub salt in their wounds.’

Margaret listened attentively and even although her stony expression would not confess it, she was proud of him.

‘That is first-rate John,’ Mr Hale cut in, rubbing his crinkled hands together. ‘Truly admirable. I see that our philosophical discussions are having an effect on you. I am most gratified, dear boy, to see that when all you prize is threatened, you still turn the other cheek and offer the hand of compassion. Bravo, quite the sincere Christian attitude.’

There was a flicker of wistfulness in John’s countenance as he absorbed the undue praise. For John had indeed been influenced by his visits to the Hale home, but it was not Aristotle or Plato that had softened him, no, it was someone much more lovely. ‘You overestimate my principles, Mr Hale, really. But yes, I have come to realise that to dwell in bitterness is not a sign of strength, but is in fact a weakness. And for the sake of all involved, I must try to draw a line under what has happened and move on, even if−’ he paused and fingered his teacup pensively. ‘Even if their violence harmed something very precious to me.’

Margaret jolted at his comment, which was uttered in a subdued tone. Surely, he must not have meant…no, he could not…he must have meant the mill. However, if Margaret was left feeling uncertain, this was nothing in comparison to Mrs Hale, who was more than a little bewildered by the strange interaction between her daughter and the tradesman. What had the troublesome riot to do with anything?

Still, there was one member of the group who was still blessedly ignorant of the marked tension in the room. ‘Wise words John,’ Mr Hale applauded. Turning to Margaret he ventured onto a sister topic, ‘Now Margaret, did you not say that Mr Higgins was going to try Marlborough Mills for employment?’

John stiffened. Higgins? The strike ringleader? Work for him? At Marlborough Mills? Never!

Margaret was rattled and fumbled with the skirts of her dress. ‘Well, erm, yes. That is, Nicho−Mr Higgins,’ she corrected after catching sight of Mr Thornton’s glare, ‘has struggled to find work since the strike and is getting quite desperate. He has additional mouths to feed now, and I merely suggested that he might try Marlborough Mills. But it is of no consequence, for I do not believe he heeded my recommendation.’

Too bloody right! If that scoundrel had shown up on his doorstep, John would have given him an earful, kicked him to the curb, and exiled him from his property. He’d sooner set fire to his cotton waste and have done with it!

‘Hmm, has he come your way, John?’ Mr Hale probed.

‘No,’ came a curt retort.

‘Ah pity,’ Mr Hale clucked, shaking his head. ‘The poor man really is destitute. He had mulled over the notion of traveling south, but Margaret talked him out of it, supporting the merits of remaining in the north.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ John blurted out. Had he heard that right? Had Miss Hale advocated in favour of the north? Impossible!

‘Is that so hard to believe, Mr Thornton?’ Margaret nipped. ‘Mr Higgins came to us in need of counsel, for he bears a heavy burden. He must find work soon, or else the children under his care will starve. He had thought of traveling south, in order to find work in the fields, but I strongly advised against it.’ Her eyes shot him daggers, but he had no time to bother about that now.

‘Why?’ John asked bluntly.

Margaret prickled. ‘Why? Well for one, his home is here. He may have offended the masters of Milton with his honourable ideals, but as far as I can see, he has committed no moral or earthly crime. No, he should not be driven out of his own town, just because other men are too small minded to see his point of view,’ she bit out, her tongue sharp. ‘Besides, I told him that the south would break his spirit, for it is less energetic and progressive than life here.’ Margaret could not help but feel rather silly, for even although she was giving Mr Thornton a ticking-off, she was at the same time defending him and all he stood for.

John was dumbfounded. ‘And pray, Miss Hale, why is he so desolate?’ he enquired, mistrusting the trickster’s appeal for charity. The Hales might be ready to sympathise with any sorry wretch, but John was not so benevolent, nor so gullible. He knew Higgins’ sort, they were well practiced in spinning tales of misfortune, if it meant leeching a shilling or two.

‘Because he is now looking after six small children who are not his own,’ Margaret defended. She remarked the look of suspicion on Mr Thornton’s face and felt frustration boil within her. ‘Oh, you do not believe him then?’ she scoffed. ‘Well, Mr Boucher, who worked for you−although I am quite sure you never knew his name−felt unable to continue in this life, so left it by his own hand. His wife, who was already sickly, could not bear the grief, so withered away within days. They leave behind six children Mr Thornton, six!’ Margaret spat the words out with righteous anger.

John was silent. He felt heartily ashamed for casting such prejudiced aspersions. Higgins must be an extraordinary man indeed if he was willing to take responsibility for babes that were not his own. Then again, John shrunk at a more personal remembrance. Boucher had killed himself then. He knew too well how such a death could scar a child.

But there was still something unsettling in his mind. 

‘How do you know all this?’ he calmly demanded to know.

Margaret was disconcerted by the odd question. ‘How do I know?’ she repeated. ‘I know because Mr Higgins has told me so,’ as if this basis alone were sufficient. ‘Besides, Papa and I were there. I saw Mr Boucher after he was brought from the stream. I…I informed and consoled his widow,’ she admitted with composure, lowering her head as a sign of respect.

John studied her and a fierceness radiated from his eyes, burning into her. ‘What?’ he challenged. ‘ _You_?’ Nobody in the room failed to notice the aggression in his interrogation. Mrs Hale, however, did not blame him, for she seconded both his question and his reaction. She had no idea that her daughter had been subjected to such appalling things.

Margaret fixed him with a challenging stare. ‘Yes, and what of it?’ She was not sure whether his indignation came from scepticism that her feminine frailty would allow her to cope with such trials, or whether he condemned her for associating with the poor. Either way, she refused to cower to his judgement.

But it was no use, for John was already consumed with frustration. Hang it all! For as much as John admired Mr Hale, he could be damned negligent as the head of a family. What was he thinking, letting Margaret witness such horrors? What was he playing at, asking her to be the bearer of such terrible news to a grieving woman? Mr Hale should have borne that responsibility, not his young daughter. No, even though John knew Margaret was strong, he would have spared her. He would have shielded her from such disturbing scenes and no matter what personal peril awaited him in Princeton as a despised master, he would have taken everything in hand himself. Damn it, he would do anything to shelter her from grief. He understood that no matter what dangers Margaret braved, he would protect her, no matter what.

Swallowing his pride, John understood what needed to be done and what she would wish of him. ‘Mr Hale, Miss Hale, please tell Mr Higgins that he has work at Marlborough Mills, should he want it. I will tolerate no nonsense mind!’ he warned crisply. ‘But if he wants it, he can start Monday morn.’

Margaret did not trust her ears, but before she could articulate her misgivings, Mrs Hale was clasping at her chest and screaming, ‘Mr Thornton! Look! Your hand! Your hand!’ Everyone spun round to trace her alarmed pointing. While John had been relinquishing his principles in exchange for Margaret’s goodwill, the hostess had spotted droplets of blood dripping from his hand.

Peering down, John saw that his bandage had come loose, and the deep gash had torn open, causing a river of red to freely flow. Clutching at it, to try and stem the crimson tide, (which would surely make a mess of the Hale’s carpet), he did not observe a figure stride to his side and quietly kneel at his feet. It was not until Margaret boldly took his hand in hers, that he froze.

Staring in disbelief, John watched as she gently unwrapped the blotted dressing, and lowered her head to assess the injury. He stiffened and every nerve in his body tingled at the thrill of his large, spread hand, resting in her own small one.

Unexpectedly, he found himself pulling away and barking, ‘Don’t!’

Margaret recoiled at his apparent rebuff, and John was crushed to think he had caused her offence. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he defended hastily. ‘Your gown,’ he explained, nodding towards her dress. ‘It will get ruined. I do not wish to stain it…you look so well in it.’

Mrs Hale hooted from behind the folds of her shawl, which she employed to mask her amusement.

Shaking her head, Margaret disregarded his advice and merely instructed her father to fetch some salted hot water and clean rags. John shivered as she lightly fingered his cut, her tip sketching a path along his serrated skin. ‘That is grim, Mr Thornton,’ she stated, eyeing him gravely. ‘I do not remember you having this when I saw you this morning.’

‘Aye, well,’ he chuckled wryly, ‘It happened after you left. I had a quarrel with a looking glass.’ To his surprise, she smiled back warmly.

Help! Perhaps the Devil had purchased his soul after all.

Mrs Hale took a loud sip of tea, to conceal the sound of her even louder smirk.

‘What a day you are having Mr Thornton!?’ Margaret mused thoughtfully, more to herself than anything else.

Gawking at her, his wilful mouth ran away with itself and divulged, ‘Auch, I don’t know...it’s all better now, thanks to you.’

That’s it John! Not a peep out of you for the rest of the night!

The tea in Mrs Hale’s mouth threatened to come spraying out amid a hysterical laugh, but she thankfully gulped it down just in time.

But to John’s disbelief, Margaret did not shy away after his slip of the tongue. She simply lifted her eyes to him, and John sat mesmerised, as he watched them twinkling in the candlelight. How he wanted to bend forward and tenderly kiss each eyelid, his wet lips marking her as his own. His breath became ragged. Leaning closer, he took in every contour of her sweet face, which he knew better than his own. Her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs, they were a second nature to him now.

She had an inexplicable gift for calming the raging torrent of his temper. When everyone else seemed to irritate John, she soothed him. With one look, one touch, she melted away the frost that had chilled his heart and head alike, beckoning him to bask in her radiant sunlight. If John were a superstitious fool, then he could almost believe it to be witchcraft, for the hold she had over him was unfathomable. 

His attention was drawn to the glittering prisms that hung enchantingly from her ears. He sensed his fingers inching towards her, impatient to gently swipe at them and see the crystals swing to and fro from her slender neck. Slanting forward, he was about to let his fingers draw lazy circles on her knuckles, when he was arrested by the sight of her plump lips, which were parted slightly, as their owner inspected him curiously. On the surface, his movements were so minor, that none of the three Hales noticed John’s improper infatuation with the young lady. Growing braver, his thumb lifted impulsively and edged slowly towards her mouth, dying to trace that hypnotic orifice. But his attempt was interrupted by Dixon dropping the water and cloths by their side with a great huff of indignation.

Damn her! Ruining the moment like that. He hoped there was a special place in Hell reserved for Miss Jessima Dixon! Then again, perhaps she had saved him from losing his mind and transgressing into gross immodesty.

John tilted his head and watched with dreamy fascination as Margaret dabbed the strips of linen in the saline solution and began to mildly stroke at the lacerations on his palm.

He winced.

‘Sorry,’ she apologised softly.

Oh God help him! It was too heavenly.

She continued like this for some time and he was content to sit and study her. Her little fingers massaged his and John marvelled at how his pinky was several times the size of her thumb. Lost in this spell, he did not discern that she was observing him keenly. Margaret was taking this opportunity their close proximity afforded to examine him intensely. Being so near to him made her feel strangely lightheaded. Though she had not really expected Mr Thornton to turn up looking as he did this morning, she was oddly disappointed. She missed seeing the exposed spectacle of his powerful arms, hairy chest, stubbled face, and strong jaw and neck…jerking, she chastised herself for dwelling on such sinful images.

Margaret could tell that he had recently washed. Well, that was hardly surprising after the state he had been in earlier. Impulsively, she found herself bending nearer, as she breathed him in. Her nostrils became congested with a heady scent, which was a combination of soap, smoke, and soot, a smell which painted an intimate picture of him. Hmm, yes, there was definitely a potent whiff of soap, so he must have had a bath. The idea of him bathing and therefore…undressed, made her turn a shade of beetroot.

Oh Margaret! There must be a special place in Hell for women who harbour such wanton thoughts!

John discerned the flush in her cheeks and fretted. Of course, he hissed inwardly, she must be hating every minute of this.

He saw that Margaret was about to say something but faltered. ‘What is it?’ he asked, unable to resist knowing her thoughts. But she just creased her brow and shook her head. ‘It is nothing,’ she fibbed. But this would not do, for he _had_ to know, even if it hurt. ‘ _Please_ ,’ he prodded faintly, ‘tell me.’

Margaret tried to ignore him but sensed his piercing eyes on her and could abide it no longer. ‘It is just…well I was thinking how tired you look, that is all.’ Margaret had detected the dark outlines beneath those fierce eyes and had itched to take one of her cloths and tenderly rub them away. John did not know what to make of this comment, but there was more, for she quietly added, ‘I do not like to see you so weary…It makes me sad.’

Mrs Hale grinned like a Cheshire cat.

John’s hand tensed and before he knew it, he had enveloped Margaret’s in his, and there they rested on his lap, entwined as one.

John opened his mouth and sighed in trepidation. ‘Marg−’ But Cupid stole his tongue, for Mrs Hale felt it was her turn to deliver dialogue in this delectable play.

‘I am so pleased your hand is mended, Mr Thornton,’ she commenced. ‘Margaret was right, it looked dreadful. What hazards your trade must pose.’

John swore that if it were not ungentlemanly, he would have flung a few choice profanities at her.

The pair minded Margaret as she rose and returned to her chair. Mr Thornton’s was an expression of regret, whereas Mrs Hale was relishing every awkward moment. Rearranging her sewing, she readied another arrow, one which she was particularly keen to fire.

‘Now Mr Thornton, I understand you managed to attend the Great Exhibition in London. How wonderful, was it marvellous?’ But before he had the opportunity to answer, she resumed her teasing, ‘And I understand Miss Latimer accompanied you, now that is nice. Can…oh I should not ask, it is naughty, I know, but shall we soon be congratulating you?’

John’s brow furrowed as he struggled to comprehend. Then as her meaning dawned on him, John’s mouth fell open like a codfish and he loudly spat out, ‘NO!’

It did not elude Mrs Hale, that Mr Thornton was not only insistent, but that he directed his assertion not at her, but at Margaret. The young lady herself jumped at his forceful exclamation.

Calming himself, John could not let the matter rest there. ‘No, Mrs Hale,’ he ventured, swivelling towards his hostess. ‘That is, Miss Latimer is a charming lady and I am sure she will make somebody an excellent wife.’ Then rotating back to Margaret, he clarified, ‘But _not_ me.'

Licking her lips at the tasty treat of simmering tensions being served before her, Mrs Hale murmured, ‘Delicious!’

But on this occasion, her husband overheard. ‘Hmm? I beg your pardon, my dear, did you say something?’

Mrs Hale had to think swiftly. ‘Delicious!’ she reiterated, crunching a ginger snap between her teeth. ‘Yes, these biscuits really are delicious Margaret, well done,’ she praised, biting into the rusk. After everybody was satisfied and their interest had waned, she speedily spat it back out into her handkerchief, for she could not abide ginger – such a bitter spice.

At this point, Dixon sauntered in and requested that Mr Hale accompany her, as a man from down the street sought his urgent pastoral guidance. Begrudgingly, Mr Hale apologised to his guest and made his excuses.

Mrs Hale on the other hand, was thankful to have her husband out of the way, for now, she could properly commence her experiment, as she still had an array of arrows in her arsenal. ‘Well Margaret thoroughly enjoyed the exhibition, did you not, my pet? But I never asked, how did your relatives find it? Your Aunt Shaw? Edith?’

‘They enjoyed it immensely, Mama,’ Margaret answered readily, pleased to have at last embarked upon a more genial topic. ‘Aunt Shaw admired the artwork and Edith was quite taken with the silks and other materials from Asia.’ Smiling blithely, she was sure she was out of the woods.

Cupid’s accomplice – perhaps better described as his assassin – primed her bow for a bullseye. ‘And Henry?’ At this last remark, she spied Mr Thornton from behind her needle and thread, smugly perceiving an envious mien eclipse his features. Oh, how scrumptious!

Margaret felt the blood in her veins turn to ice.

‘Henry?’ she echoed feebly.

‘Yes poppet, Mr Lennox,’ she recapped enthusiastically. She was sure she could glimpse the green-eyed monster lurking behind Mr Thornton’s orbs. ‘Did he not also attend? Your Aunt Shaw said he accompanied you all. Indeed, she told me he hardly left your side the entire day, so you must have some idea of his preferences. Pray tell us, did he _like_ what he saw?’

Mr Thornton let out a shallow growl.

One of the talents that women of Mrs Hale’s breeding were afforded, was an understanding, nay an art, of knowing exactly what to say, to attract the desired response from their companions. Being a craft that the Miss Beresford had excelled at, she was now savouring the prospect of hand picking every tiny quip, intending to unsettle her hero and heroine, for after all, Cupid was nothing if not a mischief-maker. 

Mr Thornton gritted his teeth.

Margaret gulped. ‘Henr–’ (she saw him flinch) ‘I believe Mr Lennox was diverted by the various displays. We did not talk about them at great length.’ Even though she tried to sound calm and confident, she was sure her voice rang out like a strangled parakeet.

‘That is good,’ her mother assented, but her merciless pressing of the subject was far from finished, ‘He is such a cultured young man, is he not? I do admire him. Oh, to be young and clever and so very handsome,’ she prattled on wistfully.

Well, that was that, thought John. Mrs Hale had single-handedly bashed the last nail into the coffin of his hopes. For the lady had all but proclaimed her blessing of the match. Hell, she may as well have marched Margaret and Mr Lennox to the altar.

John blamed himself cynically. He _knew_ it. How could he have been so stupid? Honestly, you would think he had been born yesterday! He had known it the moment he clasped eyes on Henry bloody Lennox in London. The way he talked to and about Margaret. The greedy manner in which he had beheld her. John was no stranger to any of it. Then to hear Margaret address him so casually with his Christian name, had struck him like a smart slap. It made John’s skin crawl with jealousy to think of another man imagining his Margaret the way he did. But naturally, it was inevitable. She was so perfect that she must have scores of suitors vying for her attention, for her hand. He may have hurled such accusations in sarcastic jest during his proposal, but now, he felt a waspish sting to their truth.

John chided himself for being so inexcusably blind. God! Was he so completely wrapped up in his life in Milton, that he had forgotten the world existed beyond it? Of course, Margaret had spent eighteen years away from here. It was then natural that she had caught many a man’s eye and stolen his heart. Damn it, when she arrived, she must have left behind an entire capital and countryside of love-sick fools, and he was just the sorry sap at the back of the line.

How he could have been so ludicrous to assume she would wed a man from Milton was beyond reason. John was loyally proud of his home and felt no shame in defending it. His northern birthplace was his lifeblood and he was fuelled by its vigorous energy. But even he could see that this dirty, smoky, harsh town was no place for an angel like her. How could he possibly have hoped to compete with a southern gentleman? Especially one like Henry-blasted-Lennox. Even John could admit that the prospect of being Mrs Henry Lennox had a better ring to it than Mrs John Thornton.

Still, he felt a minor consolation swell in his chest. If Lennox was in love with Margaret, then he must have declared himself, for what man could resist? That must imply that he too had been refused. John allowed himself a smug spasm of satisfaction. So, the bastard had not won! But his victory was short lived, for he then appreciated the fatal conclusion. If Henry Lennox had not been good enough for Margaret, then there was absolutely no way John Thornton would ever be. No, if Miss Hale would not consent to give herself to a man so far above John in upbringing, education, and profession, then the bar was set far higher than he could ever aspire to climb. It was hopeless.

Margaret was left reeling from Mrs Hale’s tidings. Though she was sure they were well intentioned, she wished her mother would stop, for if her mother only knew of Mr Thornton’s wounded dignity, she would not speak so freely about Henry. As Margaret meekly glanced at their guest, she did not miss the way he broodingly stared at the fire, almost challenging it. Shame singed her heart at the thought of him enduring any further pain of her making. She could only hope he was not affected by the conversation.

Witnessing the friction in the air, Mrs Hale had a fancy. She let out a wide, theatrical yawn and stretched. ‘Oh dear! Do forgive me. I am afraid my vitality is not what it once was, please go on,’ she insisted, reclining against the settee, and shutting her eyes. Mrs Hale was convinced her trick would succeed, for there was nothing to get lovers talking like the belief that their secrets were safe at the discretion of careless chaperones.

‘Yes, I suppose he is rather cultured, Mama,’ Margaret agreed evasively. ‘I do know that his interests are diverse, and he enjoys dabbling in many areas.’

At this comment, John openly sneered, and his face wore a crooked smile. It was the last straw. Dabble indeed! No, no, no. He was not having this. John may have sacrificed most of himself to love, but damn it, his battered pride could still stagger up from the gutter and make one final stand.

John let out an unpleasant snigger.

Rising in his chair, and spinning to face her head on, as enemies do on the field of battle, it was John’s turn to attack. ‘Well Miss Hale, I must confess that I do not think much of _your_ Mr Lennox,’ he scorned.

Margaret was taken aback. ‘Why?’

‘Because how pleasant it must be for him to have the leisure to _dabble_. I myself would welcome the opportunity to indulge my interests in all sorts of diverting quarters, but sadly, I have to toil for my bread and butter. It is the downside of being a lowly tradesman.’ He instigated his oration with mirthful mockery and his thick Darkshire accent seeped into each barbed jibe.

He leaned in to carry on his offensive. ‘I am sure Mr Lennox enjoys the freedom his position affords to frivolously wander around exhibitions and accompany young ladies, taking the pains to accommodate their every whim−’

‘You were with Miss Latimer!’ Margaret reminded him accusingly.

Mrs Hale let out a loud snore, to assure them of her act. It took every ounce of self-discipline not to ooh and ahh.

‘Aye, along with my sister. They were my responsibility after all. It is not the same as desiring or choosing to escort a lady for personal pleasure,’ he corrected.

‘So, you would like to be able to walk about with young _ladies_ then?’ she spurned, emphasising the plurality.

‘That’s _not_ what I meant, and you know it!’

Margaret perceived that Mr Thornton’s face was captured in an eerie contrast. Half of it was illuminated by the glow of the fire, giving it an impassioned, angry nuance, as the flicker of the flames licked his cheeks. The other was forsaken to the bareness of the night shadows, giving his features a harrowing bleakness. It was an enigmatic disparity and Margaret reviled it. However, Mr Thornton seemed to be on the warpath with his soliloquy of censure.

‘Not every man can idle away his time. No, some folks must work hard to get by. I am both gratified and content to be such a man. For I would rather be putting the strength of my body and mind to good use, securing an independent income for myself and my family, providing employment for the impoverished, and contributing to the marvels you witnessed at that exhibition, than belittling them from the side-lines.’ This entire speech was delivered in a steady tone, in which John never once raised his voice, but the acidic anger which laced every syllable was not wasted on the ladies.

Mrs Hale listened raptly.

Mr Thornton’s sudden sermon of contempt left Margaret completely mystified. Was he goading her into an argument? Still, sensing something of her own character being criticised, she could not help but react with an assault of her own. 

‘My-my, those are strong words, _sir_.’

‘A man claims the right to say what he feels, does he not?’ John ridiculed with cold severity.

‘Ah!’ Margaret derided with disbelief. So, he was going to play it like that, was he? 

‘I dare say he has. In fact, Mr Thornton, perhaps men are a little too fond of claiming the right to express what they think and feel.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, I think men often take liberties with their declarations. They have a careless habit of asserting themselves without considering how it will affect others. They blunder about. They are selfish. Maybe if a gentleman was less forceful with his overtures, then I – I mean, _we,_ might all be more prepared to give your – I mean, _his,_ thoughts and feelings due respect and appreciation.’

Both man and woman sat immobile, eyes firmly locked on each other.

It was Margaret who broke the suffocating silence. ‘Besides…,’ she stuttered hoarsely; her anger vanished. ‘Besides, a woman can appreciate the qualities that a gentleman such as Mr Lennox has. _But…_ that does not mean that she chooses to admire him anymore than…more than a friend, or an acquaintance.’

He was pensive. ‘So…how does a man know that he is more than an acquaintance or a friend to a woman?’ He averted his gaze and began to fidget with his fingers, picking nervously at the long digits. ‘I can imagine presuming to know her heart and finding out he is wrong must be a devastating blow. Such a disappointing mistake must break a man like nothing else.’

The clock ticked away in the stifling void that divided them, the rhythm akin to the steadfast pace of a drummer boy, beating out amidst the mist of their battle. ‘I do not know exactly,’ was her honest and frank confession. ‘I imagine that there would be something undeniable between them. A spark maybe. I…I can well imagine that he would evoke a passion in her that no other man ever could.’ Margaret seemed spent, but an impulse made her go on, her voice gentle. ‘ _But_ …but perhaps he was not mistaken.’ Mr Thornton glanced up and his heart halted. Margaret knew her words were fast approaching indecency, but she could not stop. ‘Perhaps a man can catch a woman off guard and may not give her time to respond, to properly understand herself, to appreciate her feelings. Possibly…maybe if he came back and tried again, things would be different.’

John was trembling from head to toe.

But there would be no more riddles, for Mrs Hale had heard enough. This evening had taken a distinctly significant and serious turn. Instead of providing clues to her puzzle, it had produced more enigmas. No, Cupid’s accomplice laid down her arrows, for she would set no more traps this night. She startled from her pretend slumber, and made a point of snorting and wriggling, to announce her wake. The pair gawked at her with expressions that revealed they had completely forgotten her presence.

‘Oh my-my,’ she tittered, ‘What an age your father has been, Margaret. I confess that I am quite exhausted, would you be good enough to call for Dixon, as I think I must retire.’

Margaret wordlessly acquiesced and rang the bell. Eyeing her mother, she felt guilty for not tending to her more vigilantly, for she looked worn out. She reminded herself that once Mr Thornton had departed, she must finish writing her letter to Frederick, which she had left sitting in the downstairs study, ready to be addressed and posted. She would also need to seek the opinion of her father about her suggestion to approach Henry Lennox for assistance in appealing Fred’s case.

‘Mr Thornton, you must forgive me, my energies are not what they once were. It has been so delightful to see you this evening, you must pardon Mr Hale and I for our rudeness in abandoning you so soon,’ Mrs Hale apologised, her speech slurred with tiredness. But with a puckish grin, she added, ‘I do hope Margaret has been a consolation.’

As Dixon trundled into the parlour and helped her mistress rise, Mrs Hale fired one final arrow in farewell, ‘Margaret dearest, will you be so good as to see Mr Thornton out?’


	11. THREE ACT DRAMA: ACT 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay my lovelies, a few quick notes...
> 
> Firstly a disclaimer! This chapter includes references to domestic abuse. Actual domestic abuse does not take place in this chapter, (or any of them), but the subject is discussed, so please be aware of that for those who may struggle with that topic. Also, there is mild swearing and the f word is used once.
> 
> I wanted to say a huge thank you for all your very kind comments and emails about the last chapter. They really were so very kind and massively appreciated! Again, if you have any thoughts on this chapter, then I would love to hear them and do tell me if you had any favourite moments or lines, as that always makes me smile.
> 
> Anyway, take care and happy reading! :)

Hey all, so before I begin, I have something super random for you! A few people have messaged me asking about Margaret's dress and if it was based on a particular dress/look. So, I thought I would share this with you. It is not 100% right and probably too fussy, as I did state in chapter 8: Fifty-Four Minutes that the dress was not quite suitable as a ball gown, but this is the type of thing I was going for. Note the sparkles in the skirt and the translucent sleeves. Anyway, the dress might not be spot on, but you can imagine how lovely she would look in something like this and how it would stun poor John. Anyhoo, I know including it in the chapter is super random, but hey, random is my middle name. :) If you want to see it, please visit: <https://twitter.com/MyScribblesandI/status/1299002248056328194>

CHAPTER 11:

THREE ACT DRAMA: ACT 3

_Fairwell, fair cruelty_

**ACT 3: Adieu!**

With Mrs Hale escorted to bed and Mr Hale still out, Margaret was left with the unfortunate task of seeing Mr Thornton to the door. Left unaccompanied, the two twiddled their thumbs, their averted eyes studying the pattern of the wallpaper with scrupulous attention, until they both stood up abruptly, signalling that it was time to say goodnight.

Quitting the parlour, Margaret squirmed at the idea of being alone with Mr Thornton. A sickly panic swelled in her belly, as she fretted about what on earth she should do or say. She had so many things she desperately wished to tell him. She wanted to apologise for her careless and unreasonable treatment of him all those weeks ago. Lord forgive her, how she bitterly regretted it. Margaret needed him to understand that she had not been in a fit state that morning and should never have agreed to see anybody, let alone him. Her temple had ached where the stone had struck, she had been exhausted from staying up all night tending to her mother, and she had been disturbed about the fading health of her dear friend.

She longed to seek his clemency for being so rash. She had been a petulant child. Her temper and tongue had both become unbridled under the wilful influence of her fatigue. She had not meant the spiteful slanders she had propelled at him, ruthlessly slurring both his character and his intentions. He had not deserved such punishment. He had to see that she did not object to him as a person, nor as…nor as a suitor.

Margaret had been confused, ambushed, overwhelmed. She had not known that Mr Thornton harboured feelings for her and had been insulted and hurt by the idea that he only spoke up because he felt indebted or ensnared. She did not want a marriage like that, based on obligation and regret. She wanted him to ask because he _wanted_ to. No, she needed him to know that she did not hate him, not one little bit.

But Margaret feared that she lacked the courage to know what to say, or how to adequately convey it. She would surely make a fool of herself. She may express herself poorly and provoke him further with her mistakes and his inevitable misunderstandings. That would only serve to push him further away and she could not bear that. Or worse still, she might earn his low opinion, by confessing sentiments that were unbecoming to a lady. More to the point, she was not even sure what she felt. Margaret knew she liked him, but just how much, she could not tell.

_There was something sweet and almost kind...But he had been mean, and coarse, and unrefined. And now he was dear and so unsure…she wondered why she hadn’t seen it there before._

Could it be that she...

Oh, it was all too nerve-wracking! Besides, his mood this evening had been so unpredictable, that she could not be sure that he would be willing to listen to her bid for reconciliation. Perhaps she should remain reserved and not utter a word. That was probably safest. She tried to drive such anxieties from her muddled mind and focus instead on the calm that would settle after he left. She would finish her letter to Fred in her father’s library, and then willingly retire to the sanctuary of her bed, for after all, it had been a trying day…a _very_ trying day. Yes, she would say and do nothing. It was better to let the dust settle.

John followed as Margaret led the way through the house. Their stomachs clenched at the knowledge that every tread brought them closer to saying goodbye. As Margaret ambled down the stairs, trying to support the heavy burden of the tea tray in her arms, she faltered, for her skirts were larger than she was accustomed to and rather too long. Her hem caught underfoot, causing her to slip. She let out a scream, as both she and the tray threatened to tumble down the steps and risk breaking.

John sprung to her assistance in a flash, and caught both woman and platter, one in each hand. It all happened so quickly, that neither could recall how they became so entangled, so sinfully close, pressed together in an intimate embrace. Blinking, Margaret saw that Mr Thornton’s face was mere inches from her own and she let out a breathy sigh. Her heaving chest was forced upon his, so firmly, that she could detect his heartbeat under a solid torso. She could feel his hot breath stroking her cheek and the shade of his stubble was a hair’s breadth away, almost scratching her collar bone. She twitched as she felt the strong arm that was encircling her waist and drawing her near, his splayed palm and fingers gripping her back and tugging her tighter. The spicy scent of soap and smoke that she had detected on his skin earlier, became sweeter in the confined space, and it made her deliciously dizzy. She felt her knees grow weak and Margaret sagged further into his hold.

John did not seem to notice the hefty weight of the platter held afar in his outstretched right hand. All he knew was that _she_ was in _his_ grasp. Her warm, petite form was flush against his own, their every curvature moulded together perfectly. John attempted to disregard the sensation of her slim midriff, and the arches of her hips, which were squeezed between his body and the biceps which held her captive.

He tried not to peek at the swell of her ample breasts, which were palpitating against his pecs and chafing his shirt. Since the dinner party and that unforgettable gown, which had presented and emphasised her décolletage in a cruelly teasing way, he had wrestled on many occasions to expel the pleasing image from his mind.

He was shocked to find himself partly standing between her legs, as one of hers was slightly raised and encased around his calf. His muscles tensed as he strove to ignore it. He also struggled not to notice that his hips were completely crushed upon hers and fought the instinctive urge to thrust forward. He prayed that certain parts of him would behave themselves and not stand to attention, revealing the animal appetites that flitted through the perverse and primal outposts of his mind. After all, it was rude to point.

Cursing his lust, John vowed to be a gentleman and diligently focused on her profile. Because she was a step above him, her face was level to his own, offering him a novel vantage. The erratic silhouettes of the few flickering candles fitfully snatched them both in and out of a strange and sensual obscurity. He took advantage of the weak light to study her meticulously.

Scanning her features, he guessed that her flawless skin was as soft as buttermilk and he yearned to lightly bump his nose along her jaw, like an affectionate tomcat nudging at his mistress. Breathing in, John could smell her, a rich, floral fragrance, which intoxicated him more than any drink he had ever consumed. John wanted desperately to sink his brow into her hair and nuzzle the strands of her crown, deeply inhaling her aroma, as his lips ghosted her exposed neck. His eyes fell upon her rosy lips and his face crept closer, dying to press his own lips upon hers. Oh heck! John did not know how to kiss and whether he would be any good at it. But he ached to squash his mouth against hers and surrender his soul to that divine indulgence. God! It would be like all his birthdays and Christmases had come at once.

But his fantasy was disturbed as he felt her wobble. Now alert, he looked into her eyes, which gazed back at him with dreamy awe, but in the gloom of the stairwell, he could not be certain. Moving away, he released her, for after all, if they were to be discovered, he would be banished from the Crampton haven forever, as their position looked far from innocent. He sighed and reluctantly motioned for them to continue down.

‘Thank you, Mr Thornton,’ Margaret said shakily. ‘It would not do for me to smash Great Aunt Lizzie’s china. It has been in the family since Trafalgar.’

Once the tray had been deposited safely in the kitchen, the pair strayed back towards the front door, as slowly as self-control would allow.

‘I was sorry your father had to leave us, where did he go?’ John did not know why he asked this, for he really did not mind that he had been left alone with Margaret and her snoozing mother. Maybe it was just to fill the uncomfortable stillness that hung in the air.

‘Oh, he went to see Mr Whitehall, he lives a few doors down,’ she answered, pleased at the distraction of conversation. ‘He is a young man, who I believe has been struggling to care for his family in his father’s absence.’

John prickled at her statement, for he knew all too well how challenging that responsibility could be on young shoulders. ‘I see…has his father died?’ he asked solemnly.

‘Oh, no,’ Margaret replied, shaking her head. ‘No, he is…well he is _away_ ,’ she clarified, her last syllables soliciting a nervous shuffle, causing her skirts to ruffle against Mr Thornton’s leg.

John was perplexed. What was she alluding to? And then it dawned on him. Ah! Away meant that he was in prison. John was inclined to dwell no more on this, but then, his curiosity was peaked, for he was surprised that the Hales kept such company.

‘May I enquire further?’ he probed. ‘Why has your father gone there? Why is the young man careworn? Is it that he struggles to provide for the family financially?’ He discharged one inquiry after the other, his impolite prying prevailing over his manners.

Goodness, thought Margaret, so many questions.

‘No,’ she corrected. ‘No, I believe that the family are rather anxious, for Mr Whitehall is due to return to them in a week or so,’ she went on reluctantly.

John was even more baffled.

‘I understand that they wish to seek father’s guidance and prayers for…well…I understand that Mr Whitehall is not a very pleasant man,’ she confessed, hoping that Mr Thornton would sense her discomfort and drop the unpleasant subject.

But tact was not his middle name.

No, John was no closer to grasping her meaning and it irritated him. If only southern folk would get to the blasted point.

‘I do not understand.’

Margaret sighed wearily. She clearly needed to be more direct. ‘I think he is unkind… _violent_ ,’ she divulged at last, so quietly, that she almost mimed the sordid word.

Ah! I see, John comprehended.

Tired of the topic, John did not realise that his reaction was one of casual disinterest and flippant disregard. Margaret on the other hand, did notice and felt a sting of provocation.

She did not wish to discuss it, but Margaret found violence in the home especially upsetting. A dear school friend of hers, Charlotte, had fled Helstone one Friday morning two years ago, and never come back. She had run off to a workhouse in Southampton, in a despairing effort to escape her wicked husband’s thuggery. Margaret had never seen her again. But the story was that on one bitter winter’s eve, Charlotte had died from starvation and exposure, her body lying in the snow, with no more dignity or ceremony than a street rat.

‘I see,’ John muttered absently. ‘Well, I suppose these things happen.’ He had not intended to be indifferent, but his mind was on more pressing matters; specifically, the fact that he was about to say goodbye to Margaret, and how he could feasibly stall their separation.

But his private musings were infiltrated by her frosty tone, which jolted him back into the present, like being doused in an icy bucket of water.

‘It happens?’ she echoed in disbelief, her expression one of cold steel.

Heaven help him! John recognised where this was going.

Her outrage was unmistakable. John could almost swear he could see steam coming out of her ears. ‘Pray, Mr Thornton,’ she nipped, ‘What does that mean?’

Oh heck!

Emm−ehh−umm−ehhh−well−hmm…say something you moron!

‘I meant no offence, Miss Hale,’ he floundered. ‘It is just…I just meant that in my role as a magistrate, I come across many cases of such concerns and as unfortunate as it is, I merely meant that it does sometimes happen.’

Well…that had to be the least articulate thing anybody had ever said!

John recoiled as she glared up at him with incredulous eyes, which were ablaze with indignation.

‘ _Excuse me?_!’ she quipped scathingly. But she gave him no time to respond. ‘I am disappointed in you, Mr Thornton, truly!’ she frowned, folding her arms. ‘Such things may be commonplace amongst some societies, but that does not make it acceptable! Nor, sir, does it give us the right to approach the matter with a want of empathy!’

He opened his mouth, but once again, her scolding shushed him.

‘Men have no right to exercise cruelty on others – _no right_! Especially against those who are vulnerable, such is the case for Mrs Whitehall. Women may be the property of the men in their lives, _sir_ , but that does not give them permission to misuse her so pitilessly.’

John was listening faithfully to everything that escaped her captivating mouth. But to his shame, he could not help supressing a spasm of arousal every time she called him, “sir.” It may have been intended as a mockery, but it still did the trick.

He gulped and grunted at the same time, resulting in a very odd guttural sound indeed.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ he just managed to squeeze in before her next outburst.

‘It is disgraceful!’ she seethed. ‘Heartless! Immoral! And we should not turn our heads away in apathy, simply because it is a universal problem that cannot be easily remedied, or because it does not affect us personally.’

Suddenly, Margaret exchanged her ferocity for timidity, as her pious exasperation faded away. Ducking her head, she murmured, ‘Women deserve more sympathy, Mr Thornton, more compassion. A woman does not always know what sort of men she will fall under the power of, whether that be her father, brother, uncle, spouse, or even her employer,’ she sniffed, hugging herself tightly.

‘She is helpless at his hand. It is not enough to blame a woman, as if she has invited or welcomed her fate. I think this is particularly true when it comes to marriage,’ she mused distractedly. ‘For she may not guess that the man she weds will mistreat her. She may never have predicted it, or else, she may have thought twice about pronouncing her vows.’

John was startled by her lecture.

Did…did she mean what he thought she did? Did she think he would…? Did she think he ever could…?

Oh Hell!

Was that it?! Did Miss Hale think him a brute? A bully? A beast that would beat his wife? Oh Margaret, my darling! Had she said no because she feared his rage and its repercussions? Did she think he was no better than a monster who would knock her about? That he would batter, bruise, and break her? For what squalid end would he commit such a heinous crime? For sport? To conquer and crush her defiant spirit?

John wanted to vomit.

She knew he liked to get his own way. That at times he could be appallingly arrogant and autocratic. John turned ashen. Did she think he would force himself on her? That he would stagger home drunk from his dinners with the other masters and restrain her with a strength she could not hope to resist and ignore her cries for mercy?

John felt like he had been punched in the gut and gagged as all the air left his lungs. Oh, sweetheart! NO! God no!

Fuck! She knew he had a temper, for had they not first met whilst he was thrashing a worker with his fist and foot alike? Damn it! His insufferable tantrums! The constant tempest of his passions was his cross to bear, but he would never – ever – lay a finger on her!

All he wanted was to love her.

‘You…’ he spluttered, lurching towards Margaret. ‘You don’t mean…’

She stared back at him in naive bewilderment.

‘Miss Hale…I…God! I would never hurt yo−’ he halted.

Raking an agitated hand through his hair, John huffed in disbelief. How could he explain this to her? How could he reassure her?

‘Miss Hale,’ he started again, more steadily this time. ‘You misunderstand me _completely_ ,’ he asserted. ‘Not for an instant do I condone such cruelty. As both a man and a magistrate, I take an extremely grim view of men who abuse those in their care, whether that be a man, woman, or child. It is the worst kind of evil and I loathe it.’ John absentmindedly raised a hand and rested his knuckles against his mouth, slowly rubbing them from side to side. It was a common habit of his when faced with unruly thoughts.

‘However,’ he implored, progressing nearer, ‘not all men are like that. I…I am _not_ that sort of man.’

Margaret’s eyebrows quirked in puzzlement.

‘I know I am not the easiest person…I am often irritable…and abrupt…I am frequently pig-headed…I have never been described as approachable or sociable…I like things my own way…at times I have precious little patience…I know I scowl too much…’ He stammered helplessly through his admission, like a blind man in an unknown place.

‘I may have a vicious temper and I pray to God every day to give me the serenity to steady it, but…’ he faltered, ‘But I could _never_ lay a hand on a woman.’ His husky voice was grave, his expression even more so. ‘I would never be that kind of husband. I would never harm my wife in any way – _never_!’

Margaret hung on his every syllable with fascinated fixation. Why was he saying all this?

‘I know,’ she whispered.

‘Do you?’ he begged.

Undoubtedly, she did.

‘Yes, of course.’

He studied her closely, to make sure she was telling the truth, his gaze darting over every angle, every pore, every line, every freckle of her lovely face.

‘Good,’ he nodded at last. ‘Because I _really_ need you to know that.’

Margaret was still mystified by his testimony.

Sensing her lingering uncertainty, John made one final plea to defend both his character as a man and his intentions as a husband and lover…not that it would make any difference to her feelings for him. ‘I would only ever wish to care for the woman I married, to cherish her, to protect her, every day of our life together.’

‘Good,’ she said slowly. ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ not really sure of what else to say.

Finally, John was calm.

The atmosphere between them settled and the pair continued to drag their feet towards the door. Margaret took her time in offering John his gloves, hat, and coat, and he was even more listless, as he fumbled around in putting them on. With his top hat in hand, they both paused, each praying the other would say or do anything to prolong their parting.

Finally, Margaret timidly ventured to discuss something she had wanted to all evening. ‘Mr Thornton…may I say something?’

‘Please! Anything!’ he agreed immediately.

‘It is a little delicate,’ she professed, picking nervously at her fingernails. ‘The thing is, Mr Thornton, I want to thank you for coming this evening.’

He cocked his head. That was not what he had expected. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I know that it cannot be easy for you to come here. We both know why,’ she stated faintly, her lashes quivering anxiously. ‘But I am grateful, for you see, my father…he appreciates your company more than you may realise.’

John writhed. He knew full well that Mr Hale estimated their relationship and was wholly ashamed that he had been such a feckless friend.

His words, when they came, were sincere. ‘I am sorry that I have stayed away. It was wrong of me.’

‘No! No, it was not wrong, I understand,’ she protested. ‘But…well I have a favour to ask you. I know I should not, and I have no right to, but I feel I must ask.’

John’s heart thumped wildly against his ribcage and he felt sure it would rupture. 

‘ _Anything_.’

She shambled coyly on the spot, her little nose wrinkling. John strived not to smile, for it was the most adorable distraction. ‘I was wondering if you might please continue your lessons?’

Was that all?

‘Is that all?’

‘Well, yes and no. You see…may I confide in you…please?’

‘Please do,’ he urged, closing the gap between them, his gaze soaring above her. However, his towering presence did not daunt Margaret, but rather made her feel wonderfully safe.

‘Mr Thornton, it may not have escaped you that my mother is not well. She has had a good turn today, but I fear it will not last. She…she is dying.’ Margaret shrivelled at the revelation.

John detected a single tear well in the corner of her eye. How he wished in that moment to scoop Margaret up in his arms and comfort her, but she had denied him the right to be her consoler, her solace. He had indeed observed that Mrs Hale was ailing. Despite appearing in fine spirits, he could tell that her vigour was superficial. She had a grey sallowness to her sunken skin, and she had become exceedingly thin. He had witnessed that she was short of breath and occasionally clutched at her chest, as if in pain. Each detail attested to her steady decline. He knew it would not be long now.

‘I…I must admit that I have perceived her deterioration. I am so sorry, Miss Hale, if there is anything I can do−’

‘But that is just it,’ she cut in. ‘The truth is that my father is not yet aware of the severity of her condition. I believe he is in denial. But he will need a friend more than ever in the coming weeks and months, as he comes to terms with her infirmity and her…her passing,’ Margaret shivered. ‘So please, do not stay away. I implore you, please be here for him,’ she beseeched. John listened to her frantic appeal. The poor darling looked ready to weep. ‘I will make myself scarce if you prefer, you will never have to see me. But _please_ , come.’

His heart broke.

‘Shhh, Miss Hale,’ he soothed softly. ‘I will come as often as required, I will not forsake him, nor your family.’

He was relieved to see her relax in this promise, but he had more to say. ‘But tell me, what of yourself? Who will look after you?’ The question was too bold, he knew, but damn it, he could not help himself and it was hardly the worst blunder he had made today.

She was confused. ‘Me?’ she reflected, scrubbing at her puffy eyes.

‘Aye, _you_ ,’ he pressed, drifting so close that the tips of their shoes touched. ‘Forgive me, Miss Hale, but it seems you carry a great responsibility on your shoulders. I think that you look after others in more ways than people appreciate. As your mother worsens, I want to know who will support you.’

‘Nobody,’ she admitted flatly. Margaret supposed Frederick would be a help if he ever arrived, but she could hardly tell him that. ‘I can assure you, Mr Thornton, I am more than capable of looking after myself.’

He scoffed and she started. ‘No!’ he bit out, becoming irate, stalking back and forth. ‘I do not like it! I will not stand for it!’ he objected fiercely.

‘Stand for what?’

‘I will not have you ill! I will _not_ see you suffer in any way!’ John howled. ‘Damn it, Margaret! Don’t you see? I want to look after you!’

John swore that he would cut out his tongue the instant he got home.

He clamped his mouth shut. He had said too much, but the words could not be undone. And Hell, it was the truth! Margaret lingered in stunned silence. She was consumed by a curious tangle of feelings. On one side, she was irritated by his desire to dictate to her and his suggestion that she could not look after herself. On the other, she wanted to drop to the ground and wrap her arms around his legs, in thanks for being the only one who cared.

‘I shall be careful, Mr Thornton,’ Margaret promised gently. ‘But please do not stop coming, for we have missed you sorely,’ she conceded. And then, feeling brave, she shyly added, ‘ _I_ have missed you.’

John froze.

His whole being near enough burst with a hungry need to grab her, confine her body to his, crash their mouths together and kiss her passionately, until their lips fused as one, and never, ever let her go.

But he was quite sure that as tempting as such a fiction might be, these actions would probably result in a sharp slap across the face. No, it would not do. No matter how seductive it was. He would have to be more patient, more subtle. Blast! Being a gentleman was hard sometimes.

Margaret observed Mr Thornton warily, for he had an unfamiliar mien about him. He stared at her something akin to how a tiger must eye its prey. He seemed ready to pounce at any second. But why? It was very peculiar indeed. What was even more unsettling, was the shrill tingle that shot through her every nerve and vein, stemming from an uncharted realm of her body.

As they loitered in the doorway, John settled on a course of action. This evening had been profoundly perplexing, as he and she had floated amidst a fog of affability and aggression. But he could not deny that something had changed between them. She had touched him, talked to him, and trusted him in ways she never would have previously. Conceivably…just possibly, there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon. 

_She had glanced his way…he thought he saw. And when they touched, she didn’t shudder at his hand. No, it couldn’t be…he would just ignore…but then she had never looked at him that way before._

Forcing his fears aside, John decided that he would make one final stand. He would ask if she would permit him to start calling on her, to escort her here and there, maybe even to court her. He needed to know if there was even the faintest flicker of a chance. No matter what she said, he _had_ to ask. For after all, _faint heart never won fair lady_. Besides, it was not as if this absurd day could possibly get any worse.

John was just about to embark on his second, and quite different kind of proposal to this woman, when she suddenly remembered something and moved away. ‘Oh!’ she laughed. ‘The book! Shakespeare’s sonnets, you were going to borrow it.’

Damn that poxy poet!

‘I take it you do not have your own copy?’ she checked.

‘I am fairly certain I no longer do,’ he grumbled.

‘Well then, allow me to fetch mine. There really are some wonderful passages, I look forward to discussing them with you. Perhaps we might have tea one afternoon and share our thoughts. I am sure we could guarantee each other a stimulating debate, but I promise to be kind…and bake more ginger snaps,’ she giggled a little flirtatiously.

Praise the poet! John would be carving that man a statue with his bare hands.

As she wandered into the downstairs study, John pursued her. Slanting against the entryway, he watched with quiet delight as she weaved through the furniture and her skirts sparkled in the dusky light. He chuckled as she browsed the bookshelves and stretched onto her tiptoes to scan the upper layers. As she searched, out of the corner of his eye, he spied a half-finished document, a letter, sitting on a table beside him. He was not usually nosy, but glimpsing the greeting, his attention was arrested. With the stacked pages fanned out, partly covering each other, he could just make out the lines…

_My Dearest One,_

_I cannot tell you how much my leaden heart misses you and how I long to see your face, which I am sure is quite unapologetically handsome these days. How I yearn to hold your hands in mine and embrace you as we once did…_

_Henry…_

_In this sad town, my one consolation is holding fast to my cherished memories of the blissful days we spent together in Helstone…_

_I have not heard from you in so long, that I have begun to worry. I am so alone. Oh, to have you here, by my side, where you belong…_

_Henry…help…_

_Please come soon, for I need you. Your coming will change everything._

_With all my love,_

_Your Margaret_

A red mist descended around John and devoured him.

His gut constricted. His pulse sprinted. His nostrils flared. His mouth dried. His fist clenched. His teeth gnashed. His thoughts spun into a maelstrom of anarchy.

Whirling round, John tore towards the door, but as he snatched the handle, he felt a hand on his back.

‘Here you go,’ she said cheerfully, presenting the volume. ‘Now do not lose it, it is my only copy,’ she teased.

But Margaret soon quietened, as she discerned the fetid cloud that polluted his every inch.

‘Mr Thorn−’ She was not allowed to finish.

‘I don’t want your bloody book!’ he snarled. ‘I do not want _anything_ from you!’

She staggered backwards, shaking her head in panicked bewilderment. Her pretence at innocence only fuelled his fury. She cowered under the intensity of his anger, his penetrating eyes piercing her very soul. His face was a mask of wrath and it was rendered even more menacing by the trembling shadows that danced across his features.

‘I do not unders−’

‘I shall continue to pay my respects to your parents. But as to our _association_ , Miss Hale, it is meaningless. You were right all along. I never meant what I said that day. I only spoke to you because you had degraded yourself and I felt it was my unfortunate duty to save you. How relieved I was that you declined. Rest assured, that I will not be renewing my offer,’ he sneered. ‘I am looking to the future and it is one without you. You mean nothing to me! _Nothing_!’

With savagery, he heaved the door open and stole into the starry night, disappearing into its black abyss.

Margaret began to choke as tears rolled down her cheeks.

She was left speechless. Standing there, staring out into the darkness, the stark truth overwhelmed her.

‘I love you,’ she whispered.

* * *

Mrs Hale had a disturbed sleep.

In a clammy haze, she thrashed about amongst her oppressive bedding, the cotton sheets snaking over her limbs and binding her like ropes. Her sweat collected in sticky pools and her damp hair veiled her nose and mouth.

Pieces of her puzzle sailed around her subconscious in a sardonic smog. What secrets did they conceal? The riot? Higgins? London? Henry Lennox? Anne Latimer? His anger? Her anxiety? Why had he not come in seven weeks? Why had she been afraid to see him? The way they looked at each other? Their argument? Raised voices in the distance?

Suddenly it came to her. She shot up and shrieked.

Panting amidst the anonymity of the night, all she could articulate was an appalled: 

‘OF COURSE!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I hope you enjoyed that chapter, a lot of ups and downs for the couple. I just wanted to make clear at this point for anybody who might be confused, the letter is to Fred. It is the one Margaret started writing in chapter 7: Anticipation. It is not to Henry! You can breathe a sigh of relief. If you read back to chapters 7 and 10, you can see that in her letter to Fred, she is going to suggest that they ask Henry for legal help, hence why he is mentioned. But have no fear, John and Margaret may have experienced a bump in the road, but love conquers all.
> 
> Also, I really hope nobody was upset by the domestic abuse element. I hope you feel it was relevant. It occurred to me that after John's brooding over his hatred for abuse in chapter 7, then it might be worth him discussing it with Margaret. Besides, even although I know Margaret was never worried he would hurt her, I can understand him getting that idea into his head.


	12. THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS

CHAPTER 12:

THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS

John Thornton rushed blindly through the empty streets of Milton, as fast as his long legs and unsteady resolve could carry him. The pale moonlight tracked the sombre column that was the solitary figure of the mill master, as he fled from the one precious person that meant more to him than any earthly prize or possession. The stars blinked as they watched his shattered soul sprint across the town and seek solace from the storm that brewed not around him, but within his wretched self.

John almost ran, as he tried to distance himself from her; to escape the place that had become paradoxically both his refuge, and the epicentre of all his grief. As he climbed the familiar hill and passed the sleeping tombstones of the cemetery, his restless mind dashed from one foul fear to the next, like a black knight charging across a chess board, flagged with squares of light and dark thoughts. John had cast his lot in this game of love but had been well and truly outmanoeuvred.

Checkmate.

The conflicting voices of hopefulness and suspicion tugged his fragile hopes between the poles of sweet sunlight and sorrowful shade, flinging him about in a flurry of violent passions, in which he was no more than a powerless pawn. They taunted him, sneering at his trampled spirit, insulting his faltered intelligence, provoking his injured pride, and jeering at his inflamed jealousy.

He hated her!

He adored her!

He loathed her!

He treasured her!

He denounced her!

No! He worshipped her!

Before John knew it, he had reached Marlborough Mills, which hailed him home not with its usual sense of comradeship, but with disillusioned mockery. No longer did it feel like his castle, but a mausoleum, in which he was doomed to spend the rest of his days alone and unloved. He thundered across the courtyard, marched through the front door, and rushed up the stairs. He slammed his bedroom door closed and with a sound akin to the howl of a wounded wolf, he collapsed against the heavy oak, as if he had just been shot in the chest. His heart was thumping so hard, that he was certain it would give way to exhaustion, and cause him to drop dead on the spot.

Scraping his shaking fingers through his black mane and tugging at the unruly strands, he was in a feverish state, his emotions as scrambled as his morning eggs. It felt like his whole being would give way to the agony of his persecuted imaginings, which besieged him like a plague. He struggled to breathe, his head pounded, his limbs were weak, and his skin blistered, for it was branded with the memory of her touch, of her beautiful body captured within the confines of his own. The burning recollection of her soft flesh was so intense that he truly believed it was scorched into the marrow of his bones, searing the strings of his nerves, and charring the very yarn that God had used to knit John Thornton together in his mother’s womb.

‘No! No! No! NO!’ he roared.

What had happened? What had gone wrong? What had he said? What had he done?

She had lied.

No, she hadn’t.

She had deceived him.

No, she wouldn’t.

‘No!’ he wailed, beating his fists against the wall, so hard, that the plaster split, cracking into a labyrinth of crevasses.

It was not true! It could not be true!

Had he been mistaken? Had she taken him in? Convinced him that she was an angel sent to him from Heaven, when she was no more than a siren from Hell, created for his torment? Had she been leading him on all this time? Did she take pleasure in tempting men like him? Was she practiced in rousing them; beckoning them down from their great heights, with the promise of gifting her charms and fondness upon them, only to crow as they were reduced to no more than her willing slaves? Did she make a game of luring hapless lovers into her seductive trap, enticing them with her beauty and brains, just to laugh in their faces and discard the pitiful remnants of their hearts?

No!

_His_ Margaret was _not_ like that!

John tore off his jacket and flung it to the floor in frustration.

But she was not his Margaret, was she? No, she was somebody else’s.

‘Henry bloody Lennox!’ he cussed. John felt his throat constrict in disgust as he spat out the bastard’s name, as if the syllables were smeared in arsenic.

He did not understand.

Had Margaret not said that Lennox was no more than an acquaintance, a friend? She had seemed so sincere, that John had believed her – the gullible fool!

But then…the way Margaret had looked at him tonight…touched him…smiled at him…prettily blushed when near him…defended him even…surely that was no deceit.

No! The letter had revealed it all. There was no leeway for misinterpretation. The words of adoration she had bestowed upon another had assaulted John like being booted in the gut and groin at the same time… _My Dearest One…my leaden heart misses you…how I long to see your face…how I yearn to hold your hands in mine and embrace you as we once did…in this sad town, my one consolation is holding fast to my cherished memories of the blissful days we spent together…to have you here, by my side, where you belong…I need you…your coming will change everything._

But worst of all, was that one damming phrase etched in her feminine hand, engraved in swirls of ink. The missive that had condemned his once hopeful future to one of irrefutable despair. It was her final parting expression that declared her faithful affection for another man: _With all my love,_ _Your Margaret._

John spun in wild circles, as his soul tossed and tumbled amongst a squall of seething and spiteful passions. One minute he was bolstered by an optimistic courage, a confidence that he could salvage the situation, that he had been wrong in his assumptions. But seconds later, he was plunged into the depths of desolation and was suffocated by the nauseating realisation that Miss Hale may be John’s world, but she would never be his wife.

He was angry. He was distraught. He was resentful. He was confused. He was disappointed. He was thwarted. He was demeaned. He was regretful. He was conflicted. He was drained. He was ruined. John was madly in love.

Oh Hell! Why had he said those atrocious things? He had been despicable. He had been abominable. He had been downright immoral. His blasted temper! His vile envy! He had always known they would bring him devastation. As God was his witness, John had not meant a word of it! And her face – her poor sweet face. He had distressed her. He had frightened her. Oh, Lord forgive him! He was no better than a monster! John had seen that she was scared, that she was on the verge of tears, but still he had gone on, bursting to purge himself of his heartache, lest it consume him from within, slowly corroding his organs with its venomous bile. Had he not sworn to her that he would never hurt her? Then a moment later he had hurled such heinous slanders at her, though she stood there as dumb and defenceless as a china doll.

And all for what?

Just because she did not want him but cared for someone else. That was no crime. She had every right. Miss Hale was not his fiancée, John conceded with a whimper. There was no cluster of diamonds, or band of gold on her slender finger, binding her to him in a trinity of romantic, spiritual and legal wedlock. No. It was just that John could not stand the truth! It was the knowledge that her lovely heart belonged to someone else, someone infinitely more deserving. That she would probably soon give her hand, her smiles, her lips, her body, her innocence, her whole damned life to a man that was not him.

No!

John could not think of it! It tore at him like a thousand knives striking and shredding his soul. They slashed at every private wish he had ever held, with no mercy, no pity, simply taking disgusting pleasure from his pain. He would assuredly bleed to death, slowly but surely, from this acute sadness, from the assurance that Margaret was lost to him forever.

Well, if John had not squandered his chances with her before, then he had no hope of winning her now, after unleashing that unforgivable tirade upon the saintly creature that was Margaret Hale. Her gentle nature and sense of justice would never acquit him.

Hell! What she must think of him!

‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed at last. ‘Margaret, sweetheart, I’m so sorry!’

He had tried to stop. His conscience had been screaming at the top of its lungs for him to desist, to hold back, to break away from his fit of fury, his frenzy of unfulfilled longings. But he could not. His mind would not obey, his mouth would not halt. The hideous truth was that in that instant, he had intended her to suffer. He wanted her to feel even an ounce of the disappointment and distress she had provoked. It was wrong and wicked, he knew. But after all, John was just a man, a man who was heartbroken.

When John had finished his outpouring of deception, he had been a coward and run away as fast and far as possible. He could not bear to look at her alarmed face a moment longer, to know that he had caused her such anxiety. But more so, if he had stayed, he would assuredly have dropped to his knees and grovelled at her feet like a beggar. He had wanted to grasp the hem of that virtuous dress and kiss her shoes, imploring for forgiveness, pleading for her to change her mind and love him.

God! In the twinkling light of the evening, she had looked like a princess. But John despised himself, for he knew that he was no prince charming. No, he had been a villain, something resembling the fearsome beast that the hero must slay to protect the heroine. Yes, Margaret was a princess, but John was not her prince, and his grim story was no fairy-tale. Men cut from his rough cloth, tough and uncouth lads, who were no more than lowly northern tradesman, they had no business setting their sights on Heaven and coveting its celestial beings. No, boys like John Thornton had no right to even dream of wooing and wedding a girl like Margaret Hale.

But…she _had_ said that perhaps he had not been mistaken, that if only he had given her the opportunity to properly understand herself, that things might be different. It was conceivable that she might be willing to reconsider, to give him a chance…no…it was too late! They were over before they had even begun.

As he slunk around his room in search of anything to distract his tattered spirits, John’s eyes fell upon the dying embers of the fire. The blurry hues of orange, red and blue frolicked feebly in the grate, ready to fizzle away into extinction. But peeking out from the bed of crackling coal, a single singed page glared back at him with blazing scorn: Sonnet 116.

‘No,’ John pleaded, shaking his head. ‘No!’

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments. Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

‘Stop it!’

_Or bends with the remover to remove._

_O no! it is an ever-fixed mark_

_That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_

‘Enough!’

_It is the star to every wand'ring bark,_

_Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._

_Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_

_Within his bending sickle's compass come;_

‘Leave me alone!’

_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_

_But bears it out even to the edge of doom._

‘AURGH!’

_If this be error and upon me prov'd,_

_I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd._

‘Margaret! I’m sorry, my darling, I didn’t mean any of it! I – I − ’ But he could not finish, for no words could express his shame, his guilt, or his yearning.

Staggering over to his bedside table, John heaved open the drawers with purpose. He stood panting; his fierce eyes locked on the clandestine secrets within. Snatching them up, he held the precious possessions in his hand with something resembling protective piety. As he did so, the voices of his latent insecurities began to whisper malicious trickeries in his ear.

‘Who do you think you are, John Thornton?’ they hissed.

‘You must be mad! To think you could ever aspire to marry a woman like her,’ they sneered.

‘Why would she care for you? You’re nothing!’ they jibed.

‘You’ll never be good enough,’ they goaded.

‘You can have the power, the property, the prestige, but she will _never_ think of you as a gentleman, merely a tyrant,’ they insulted.

‘She’s laughing at you,’ they teased.

‘She’s afraid of you,’ they stung.

‘She deserves better than you,’ they ridiculed.

‘She will lie in another man’s arms night after night…after night,’ they incited.

‘He will care for her, kiss her, hold her, make love to her, impregnate her, raise a family with her, laugh with her, cry with her, learn from her, grow old with her, watch over her…he will get to love her… _not you_ ,’ they prophesied.

‘She will _never_ want you,’ they vowed.

Then, giving into the hopelessness that assailed him from every angle, John sank to his knees in defeat.

‘God help me!’ he begged, his ice-blue eyes misting.

He fell forward and rested his head on the floor, as if in fervent prayer. Clutching the items in his balled fist, for the first time since his father’s death, fifteen years ago, John Thornton cried.

‘Margaret…I love you,’ he whispered.

* * *

Running through the house, Margaret hurried from the scene where a mere minute before, he and she had stood on the brink of joy, only to have it all so cruelly snatched away. She stumbled, tripping over her long skirt, causing her to bump and scrape along her path. She yelped as she bruised and scratched her bare arms on this and that. Margaret tried to ignore the oppressive darkness that loomed over her like a solemn funereal veil, which sneered at the demise of her own hopes of happiness. She rubbed at her ruddy face, which was soaked by the hot tears that streamed down her cheeks and stung her eyes.

Once she was at last in her bedroom, Margaret pressed her hands against the door, striving fretfully to catch her breath. She was choking and hiccupping amidst an onslaught of emotion and felt as if her whole being would split into pieces from the sheer force of her misery.

Turning round, Margaret caught sight of herself in the mirror and sprang back, at first fearing she had startled an intruder. She crept forward and squinted, trying to get a better look in the dim light, but was suddenly distraught by the vision that stared back at her. She looked like a bride. The spiteful irony was too much to endure, and Margaret started to impatiently pull at her dress, attempting to be free of it. In her frantic tussle with the many layers of shimmering white material, she began to tear at the thin cloth and the silence of the room was unsettled by the sound of ripping fabric. She felt like Cinderella being beset by the ugly stepsisters in the story her governess used to read her and Edith as children. Except this time, the princess was condemning herself and the sisters were no vindictive women, but were the sadistic siblings of hurt and humiliation. Cackling with malice, they teased and tormented her.

‘You were right all along.’

‘He _never_ loved you.’

‘He _never_ wanted you.’

‘He _always_ judged you.’

‘You mean _nothing_ to him!’

Giving up on liberating herself from the constraints of her clothes without the help of Dixon, Margaret paused and ran the back of her trembling hand across her wet face. Then she stopped. She spied a beautiful assortment of something red, white and yellow waiting for her on her bed.

The flowers.

Snatching them up, Margaret began to rashly shred the silken buds, ripping the soft petals and chucking them at the ground. She snivelled as her floor became a carpet of wilting corollas, a sea of withered dreams.

Red for his blazing anger towards her. White for the drained colour of his incensed features. And yellow for the joy she would probably now never feel.

‘Ouch!’ Margaret shrieked. Lifting her fingers, she saw that she had pricked one on a ragged thorn. It seemed poetically poignant somehow; being wounded by a thorn and a Thornton in one night. She watched mesmerised, as beads of blood oozed and trickled onto her fair gown, corrupting its purity.

Dropping down, she lifted her knees to her chin and cradled herself like a child. Rocking gently back and forth, Margaret quietly wept. Her feelings were fractured, broken in so many undistinguished places, that she mistrusted that her heart could ever heal.

She loved him!

It was so horribly unfair!

But it did not matter anymore. Her feelings were irrelevant, for it now transpired that Mr Thornton had never cared for her. Margaret had been right. He had condemned her for her careless behaviour at the protest. He had proposed, not because he had chosen her or felt anything for her, but because he believed he had no choice. He had thought himself trapped, tricked even, by a manipulative minx. He had been relieved that she had said no, but merely affronted at her lack of proper appreciation for his offer. If she had said yes, then he would have been terribly disappointed and undoubtedly would have felt sickened by the knowledge that he would have to give up his own freedom and future happiness to become her reluctant husband. She would have resigned him to a life of duty and bitter regret.

No, none of it mattered now. He would never love her; he would never be hers.

But…she was sure something had altered between them…He had smiled at her, a warm, enchanting smile…He had held her hand and caressed it…He had drawn her close on the stairs and studied her every feature with admiration…He had said he wanted to take care of her…He had…

Margaret sighed.

She no longer knew. She may even have imagined all the intimacies she fancied they had shared.

Perhaps something _had_ changed. Possibly he had been willing to let them start again, to be friends. But Margaret had ruined it. She had been too bold, too headstrong, too insistent. Maybe he thought she had thrown herself into his arms on purpose tonight, like some sort of wanton woman, and it had rekindled his suspicions about her behaviour at the riot. Maybe he had taken offence to her request that he come to the house, as if he would want to see her or her family, when John Thornton was in demand by all the Milton elite and their eligible daughters. Yes, why on earth would he want _her_ when he could have _them_?

Margaret sobbed.

He would be somebody else’s partner in life. That woman would get to adore him, embrace him, be kissed by him, explore and marvel in his beautiful body and soul, feel the warmth of his breath on her face every morning, fuss over how often he ate and slept, bear his children, grow with him, welcome him home every evening, feel secure in his sturdy arms, watch proudly as he worked hard and proved himself a fair and honourable master…she would get to love him…not Margaret.

But there had been something strange in those piercing eyes when he had shouted at her. He had not just been angry…he had been…wounded.

But _why_?

And why had he appeared to change so very suddenly?

Giving in to the weight of her crushing despair, Margaret put her head on the ground and rested on the fragrant bed of roses, which reminded her of all she had gained and relinquished this night. She had discovered that she was in love, but that love cared not for her, nor did the mate her heart had chosen. Stroking the shrivelling blossoms, she pictured the man who suddenly meant more to her than anything in the whole wide world, and who would probably never want to see or speak to her again. Certainly, he would never think of her with anything other than disdain or indifference.

Oh! If only they had never come to this sad town. If only she had never met John Thornton.

‘John…I love you,’ she whispered.

* * *

Unknown to both John and Margaret, they each lay on their bedroom floors, weeping for the loss of one another. Without uttering a word, their two spirits spoke in harmony, echoing the shared sentiments of their broken hearts. Breathing into the silent night, the two halves of their one soul mourned their separation across the void of the slumbering town and all the mistakes and misunderstandings that lay scattered between them. As the dark sky gradually blanched into the dreary Milton dawn, both John and Margaret finally fell into a fitful sleep. As they tossed and turned, they were disturbed by the same mirrored and menacing vision.

They dreamt that they strolled side-by-side, through a vast meadow, that stretched beyond the horizon. The long grass quivered against their thighs, the breeze lulling it to and fro. The field was a luscious green and was home to a throng of vivid flowers, all turning their smiling faces towards a radiant sun. The sky was the brightest of blues, and birds sang their merry, twittering tunes in the trees, without a care in the world. The day was humid, and John had stripped himself of his jacket and cravat, savouring the freedom of his less rigid attire. Margaret trekked along in her muslin frock and after daringly removing her shoes and stockings, she relished the feel of the soft earth tickling her feet.

The lovers continued hand-in-hand and blushed as their fingers intertwined, her little digits curling around his larger ones, each stroking the other with playful affection. Their bodies brushed innocently in their intimate proximity as they journeyed on, not knowing where, just content to be together.

Feeling a surge of joy wash over her, Margaret ran ahead and began to dance, spinning in wide circles, her yellow dress swirling as she twirled. John let out a hearty, rumbling laugh, as he watched the woman he adored look so carefree in his company. Chasing after her, John clasped Margaret’s waist and pulled her tight to him, lifting her into the air and whirling her around, as if she weighed no more than a feather. Margaret giggled as she wrapped her elbows around his neck and revelled in the knowledge that his strong arms held her safe and would never let her go. As John lowered Margaret to the ground, her body slid down his and they breathed heavily at the sensation, as sensual sparks shot through them from tip to toe. There they stood and gazed at each other, gently swaying, dancing tenderly as one. Lightly rubbing their foreheads and noses together, they slowly inched their mouths closer, and closed their eyes, eagerly anticipating the instant their lips touched, inviting their first kiss.

But it was not to be.

Suddenly, a freezing wind, as icy as the grave, whipped up around them, nipping at their flesh and chilling their very bones. Snapping open their eyes, both John and Margaret found themselves completely alone. Bewildered, they began dashing around, frantically hunting high and low for their companion.

‘John!’ she shouted.

‘Margaret!’ he yelled.

Nothing.

The peaceful pasture disintegrated and warped into a concrete city. The cheerful shades soon vanished, replaced instead by a steely and sterile grey. It was cold, so very cold, that they each felt their fingers and toes turning numb.

Shivering, they continued to search, disorientation and dread polluting their parallel dreams. Then thankfully, they each spotted the other in the distance, standing so very far away, with their backs turned. Exhaling in relief, they began to move forwards, impatient to be reconciled.

But they could not.

They were stuck.

Panicking, they tried to break free from their invisible prisons, but were rooted to the spot like statues. It felt as if their feet were chained, their legs weighed down by rocks, and their bodies anchored in position. But still they tried, struggling to heave and drag themselves onwards, arms extending out, hands grabbing, fingers grasping.

‘Margaret!’

‘John!’

As loud as they could, they both called out to each other, fighting desperately to reach their heart’s desire. But the ghosts of their dreams did not hear them. They did not acknowledge the anguished cry of their lover. Instead, they simply began to walk away, their apparitions fading into obscurity.

‘NO!’

‘Wait!’

‘Come back!’

‘Please stop!’

‘I LOVE YOU!’

But their screams were ignored.

Gasping for air, both John and Margaret awakened and bolted upright. In a haze of fright, they let consciousness attune their senses as they took in their surroundings. Looking around them, they each heaved a sigh of regret, neither knowing what they dreaded more, the memory of their nightmare, or the haunting reality that in their wake, they were still very much alone, their lover nowhere to be found.

* * *

The following morning, Maria Hale sat in her bed, her wits as sharp as the silver knife that sliced through the fruit Mr Thornton had brought the previous evening. As she chewed on her succulent orange, the tangy juices tantalising her taste buds, she was thinking, she was thinking very hard indeed.

Last night had proved much more mystifying than she could ever have anticipated. Mrs Hale had been so sure that her plan would work perfectly. She had felt like the Greeks with their Trojan horse, sneaking behind the impregnable walls of the fortified city. Only this time, instead of a wooden horse, she had used her guise of hostess as her stealthy cloak of cover. And rather than penetrating the camp of the enemy, she had sought to breach the barrier of Margaret and Mr Thornton’s association and the confidences it held, hoping to gain an insight into the inner sanctum of their relationship. Although, what kind of relationship they shared was yet to be established.

Her scheme had succeeded splendidly, up to a point, as she had been able to secure the opportunity to spy on their interactions and to test the nature of their affections. Such snooping had verified every suspicion that she had held, that the pair were very much in love. However, from this point on, things became maddeningly higgledy-piggledy, for to her dismay, Mrs Hale had found that on closer inspection, their association was far from assured, indeed, it was most unclear.

Yes, there was something distinctly remiss.

Picking up a pack of playing cards that rested on her bedside table, she began to absently sort through them, separating the sets. Then selecting the house of hearts, she decided to set out and arrange the pieces of her puzzle, one by one. 

Two of hearts…Two challengers…Henry Lennox and Anne Latimer, the contenders for Mr Thornton and Margaret’s favour. It was evident that both names had ignited an intense jealousy in both the tradesman and her daughter, each wary and anxious of their rivals. But the man and lady had proven to be no more than red herrings, for it was evident that neither Mr Thornton nor Margaret harboured any regard for these would-be suitors, so they could be discounted as no more than superficial minor characters.

Three of hearts…The flowers that Mr Thornton had brought, with their three colours of red, white and yellow…At first, Mrs Hale had been pleasantly surprised that he had offered Margaret such a token of devotion, for after all, did flowers not openly declare his intentions? But she could not help but feel that he had not planned to bring them, that it had been some sort of blunder. But how was that even possible? Still, he had looked at her with such adoration when he passed them over, watching her with hidden joy. And red, white and yellow…there was something telling in that, she was sure. Mrs Hale was not so prejudiced that she could not consent that even a northern tradesman like Mr Thornton might be familiar with the art of floral connotations and their cryptic messages.

Four of hearts…Four hands…Mrs Hale had watched as Margaret tended to Mr Thornton’s cut palm, the mother smiling as their four hands subtly, or at times, not so subtly, caressed each other. Now, for a start, that vicious gash, where had it come from? She had a funny feeling from the sheepish look on his face, that it was no industrial accident, and that Margaret was privy to his problem. Then, the way Margaret had performed her role as nurse, inspecting it, cleaning it, and bandaging it with such tender fondness, that she almost seemed born to care for him. She had looked serenely content and he, well he had looked like he was in Heaven, which was odd for a man with an injured hand. He had observed her with enchanted beguilement and Mrs Hale had to stop herself from gawking at his poorly veiled fascination with Margaret. Also, she had been certain he was constantly about to touch her, his fingers twitching like a tic. Really, the manners of northern people were utterly perplexing. Then again, the way he had covered her hand with his and gently squeezed it, that surely spoke of a secret bond.

Five of hearts…Five biscuits…Mrs Hale had been surprised when Margaret had excitedly announced that she was going to bake biscuits to accompany their tea. For Margaret may have been an accomplished baker, but she never usually indulged in the pastime. Indeed, she only ever took up her rolling pin at Christmas, when she was making treats for the parish poor. And ginger! Well, it was not like Margaret to make ginger snaps, for neither she nor her mother favoured the tart zest, so what was the point in that? But if they were Mr Thornton’s favourite then well, that was a different kettle of fish. For after all, they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and the boy had greedily guzzled no less than five biscuits – five! Now, was he admiring the wafers, or the baker? Hmm, the proof was most certainly in the pudding on this occasion, the poor pet was smitten.

Six of hearts…Six children…Mrs Hale had to admit that she had been most unsettled to hear reports of her dear daughter spending so much time in the impoverished Princeton district. What was even more disturbing, was to discover that she had been involved in the most shameful saga of that wretched man…Bletcher…Bencer…Bosner…Beecher…ah Boucher, that was it! She had seen his body paraded through the grimy streets and then had been sent to break the news to his unfortunate widow. Appalling! Mrs Hale still had to reach for her smelling salts to calm her jittery nerves at the idea of a Beresford belle having to endure such trials. Oh! Her little lamb.

But what had really caught her attention, was how aggrieved Mr Thornton had been to learn of this. Truly, his response had been most fervid and unexpected. It had been both out of character and out of context for a man who claimed to be a mere family friend to the Hales, to respond with such authoritative exasperation. Watching and listening intently to his interrogation of Margaret, Mrs Hale could not help but feel that he was not affronted that Margaret had been about her charitable deeds in the slums of his city, but that she had been subjected to such distressing scenes. Yes, his reaction did not speak of a desire to command or belittle Margaret, but to…hmm…to protect her. And for that, Mrs Hale had mutely thanked and admired him.

Seven of hearts…Seven weeks since he had come to the house…But then, if he cared so much for Margaret, why had Mr Thornton not attended his lessons, or paid a social call in seven long weeks? Oh, there was that pish-posh about the demands of business after the strike, but in her experience, if a man loves a woman, wild dogs could not stop him from going to her. No, there was more to it than that, of this she was as sure as her confidence that God was an Englishman. 

Eight of hearts…Eight times Mary had said that the people of Milton had noticed That Mr Thornton had been behaving strangely…Now, this really was a point of considerable consequence. When Mary Higgins had so innocently imparted the town’s gossip yesterday afternoon, Mrs Hale had noted that she had cited eight times that its citizens thought the master of Marlborough Mills had become even more cantankerous than before. Apparently he had become as sour and dour as a miserable old miser, barking orders at his workers, raging through the streets like a storm, and constantly wearing a scowl so intimidating in its ferocity, that it made babes cry in their perambulators. She knew it was eight, because she had counted the stitches in her sewing as Mary spilled the beans. So, why was that then? Perhaps the strike had spoilt his good humour, but by all accounts, the industrial action had been going on for some time and this shift in his disposition had been conspicuously sudden and severe.

Nine of hearts…Nine times Margaret had glanced in the mirror…Mrs Hale had not failed to detect that Margaret had been a nervous nelly the night before, constantly tugging at her dress and fiddling with her hair. Mrs Hale had wondered if it was due to being uncomfortable with the lavish nature of the gown, but then again, her daughter had worn finery before. She had remarked that Margaret had checked her appearance in the looking glass nine times in the hour before his arrival. On each occasion, she had darted before the reflective device and had inspected herself with uncharacteristic scrutiny. Had her daughter suddenly become vain? Or was her bout of self-consciousness the result of wanting to look pleasing for their guest? Well, if that had been her concern, then she need not have fretted, as Mrs Hale’s strategy had evidently thrived, for Mr Thornton had visibly been overwhelmed by Margaret’s beauty. Indeed, his jaw had opened so wide, she worried it would fall to the floor and Dixon would be left to scoop it up.

Ten of hearts…Tenfold they had confused her…Mrs Hale was more than a little perplexed by the events of the tea party. Mr Thornton clearly adored Margaret, that was as sure as salvation itself. But again, why had he stayed away? And why had he grown graver and sterner during the interlude? As for Margaret, well she had been anxious all day, right from the moment her mother had insisted she seek out the bachelor in person and invite him to tea. Why? And why had her daughter been distracted and forlorn for so long? It was not a result of moving to Milton, for this change had occurred long after they had begun to settle here. Then, to add to the muddle of unanswered questions, what on earth had they been talking about last night? The right to express feelings? Taking liberties with declarations? Mistakes that can break a man? The chance for things to be different? What had all that meant?

But Mrs Hale smiled to herself, a small, sly, secret smile. What had both baffled and intrigued Maria Hale more than anything, was the timeline of events. The real question was, why did the shifts in both Mr Thornton and Margaret’s behaviour match up so precisely? Seven weeks, that was key. But it all made sense now – almost. Waking from her restless sleep, she had remembered something that had put everything into perspective.

Jack of hearts…Mrs Hale would come back to the auspicious courtier in a minute, for there were a few final facts to put in place before her puzzle was complete.

Flitting her gaze over to the corner of the room, she watched as Dixon clucked around like a mother hen, making her mistress’s chamber of convalescence a cosy little nest.

‘Dixon,’ she began pensively, as she shuffled the deck.

‘Hmm,’ responded the servant, as she bustled about with linens and chamber pots in her burly arms.

Mrs Hale decided to pursue her line of enquiry cautiously. ‘You remember that Mr Thornton was here yesterday evening?’

Dixon grumbled at the distasteful recollection. ‘I’m sorry to say I do,’ she assented bluntly.

Mrs Hale grinned at her faithful old friend’s retort. Dear Dixon would not be best pleased if Margaret married a man from Milton, that was for sure. If Maria Hale could ever be accused of being a snob, then she was nothing compared to the toffee-nosed Dixon, who had the airs and graces to match any duchess of the realm.

But there was no time for joking now, for Mrs Hale had vital clues to collect. ‘Dixon, can you remember when he was last here? Before last night, that is.’

Wiping her hands on her apron, Dixon merely murmured: ‘I don’t rightly remember,’ giving the matter little thought.

Mrs Hale wriggled in her bed, agitation setting into her creaking bones, just as stubbornly as her arthritis. ‘Now Dixon, think, please. Before last night, when was Mr Thornton last here?’

Dixon stopped what she was doing and sighed as she trolled through her memory. Not that she would ever admit it to the mistress, but remembering when the likes of that upstart tradesman came to call was really not on her list of priorities.

‘It was several weeks back,’ she muttered, beginning to plump the pillows.

Mrs Hale felt she might burst with irritation. ‘Yes, I know, I know, but when?’ she pressed.

Dixon rumpled her temple as she thought. ‘I think it was the day after that trouble in town. There was some right nonsense afoot, I hear. People smashing up property and careering through the streets shouting like ruffians. Honestly, what a rowdy lot these people are, you’d think they were heathens,’ she griped. ‘If I could get my hands on those louts, I’d put them over my knee and skelp their backsides, make no mistake.’

Mrs Hale made a note to remind Mr Thornton that Dixon’s formidable disciplinary services were available, should he ever need to restrain his workforce in the future. But for the moment, she needed to know more.

‘Come now Dixon, are you sure?’ she urged.

Dixon stuck her tongue out and licked her lips, as she often did during times of deep contemplation. ‘Yes,’ she surmised at last. ‘It was definitely the day after all that tomfoolery. I mind because Martha was feart to go out and get the bits and pieces for supper and I was most peeved to have to go myself. After all, what’s the point of having help?’ she grunted.

‘Yes − yes,’ Mrs Hale squawked, flapping her hands like a bird about to take flight. ‘But think Dixon, focus! Why was Mr Thornton here at all? For a lesson?’

Out came the tongue again. ‘No, it wasn’t for a lesson, that’s for sure.’

‘Why?’

‘The master wasn’t in.’

Mrs Hale’s eyes almost popped out her head. ‘He was not in?’ she gasped.

‘No.’

‘Then _who_ did he see?’ Although she was sure she already knew the answer.

‘Why, Miss Margaret, of course,’ Dixon said, as if it were the most natural conclusion.

Mrs Hale’s pulse was galloping like a stallion at Ascot. ‘Alone?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

Mrs Hale leapt up and nearly gave poor Dixon a heart attack as she grabbed her arm with excitement. ‘Did he know?’ she probed. ‘Did Mr Thornton know that the master was not at home? Did he come in to await Mr Hale’s return?’

Dixon sighed in vexation; she really had no idea why the Mrs was working herself up into such a state over nothing. She was as hysterical as a mad woman and it would not do at all, especially when she desperately needed to rest.

‘No,’ she huffed. ‘I remember answering the door when he knocked. He looked particularly uneasy; I do recall that now you ask. He probably felt guilty for calling so early, really, the people here have no manners.’

‘Dixon, please concentrate!’ Mrs Hale begged, shaking the chubby arm that she held in a viper’s grip.

‘Well, I told him that the master was out. I was about to close the door when he explained that he did not want the master but wished to see Miss Hale. I checked to make sure I had heard him right, as it was most unusual. But he soberly stated that he had come to speak to Miss Margaret. So, I let him into the downstairs study and then fetched her,’ she shrugged.

Mrs Hale felt like she was welling up inside with anticipation and that she might take flight at any moment, like a hot air balloon. ‘And Margaret, what of her? How did she seem?’

‘How did she seem?’ Dixon repeated, nonplussed.

‘Yes!’ Mrs Hale shrieked. ‘How did she seem at the idea of seeing him?’

‘Nervous, I think. But that is no surprise, is it? I shouldn’t think she’d want to waste her time dealing with the likes of him.’

‘And how long did he stay?’ Mrs Hale inquired, her breath quickening.

‘I don’t rightly know. Not long, I think. Five minutes perhaps, because I heard the front door slam not long after and it wasn’t the master coming back. No, not much more than five minutes, so whatever he had to say, it can’t have been very important.’

At last, Mrs Hale fell back against her pillows in triumph.

AH-HA!

Beaming to herself in her newfound wisdom, Mrs Hale began to merrily sort through her pile of needlework. But seeing that she was lacking a few bits and bobs, she purred: ‘Dixon, I have run out of blue thread. Would you be a dear and see if Margaret has any in her room?’

Dixon grumbled as she put down her odds and ends and sauntered away.

Mrs Hale’s lithe finger tapped knowingly on the Jack of hearts sitting before her.

‘The argument,’ she whispered.

For during the night, as Mrs Hale’s frenzied mind had attempted to untangle the jumble of puzzle pieces floating around her subconscious, she had remembered something. The day after the riot at Marlborough Mills, she had been reposing and had startled awake to the sound of muffled voices. They had not been overly loud but had definitely been raised. At the time, she had thought little of it, drifting back to sleep, but now, she was sure it was of profound significance.

She would wager that the voices had been those of Margaret and Mr Thornton. And she would bet anything that she knew what they had been arguing about. He had proposed. She had refused. That would explain everything.

Nodding her head sagely, she picked up the last three cards in her suit. With satisfaction, she placed the two most important players together, side-by-side, the king and queen of hearts. Observing the two sovereigns resting together, she wondered what had gone wrong between her daughter and Mr Thornton, and what she could, or should, do next to help.

But her thoughts were interrupted as Dixon soon came traipsing back into the room, her heavy footsteps plodding along. Placing a reel of Egyptian-blue thread by the bed, she dropped something unexpected on the mistress’s lap.

‘I found these in Miss Margaret’s desk when I was searching for the thread. They must be the master’s and got mixed up with her belongings by mistake. I thought I best bring them down,’ she mumbled, as she continued with her work.

Mrs Hale glanced at the articles now sitting in her possession but was instantly confused. Filching them up, she inspected the dark leather material, the tailored cut, the sheepskin lining, and the sizeable width, that would snugly contain and warm a thick wrist, a masculine hand, and lengthy fingers.

They were gloves, men’s gloves.

But they were not her husband’s. The style was too fashionable. The textile was too expensive. The hand was far too large. Turning them over and peering inside the cuff, she stiffened as her eyes caught sight of some gold letters that had been embroidered into the fabric:

JT

Wordlessly, Mrs Hale laid down her discovery. She sat in hushed deliberation for several minutes before she decidedly placed the final playing card upon the gloves.

The ace of hearts − her card.

The time for games was well and truly over. It was now time for a mother to have a frank talk with her daughter.

‘Dixon,’ Mrs Hale said drily, her tone serious. ‘Please find Margaret and tell her I wish to see her – immediately!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m having a slight character crisis. I need to know, is my John still attractive? Do we still fancy the pants off him? Haha! So, after reading comments/emails and after chatting to some friends, I soon realised that my John is maybe not like traditional depictions of John. He is much more clumsy and comical - not his choice, I assure you. But I must know, is he still appealing in looks and character? I have tried to write some sexy bits, like the bit on the stairs, (which maybe came off as plain creepy), and constant references to his build, muscles and strength, but I have a horrid feeling that my John is coming across as a pitiable fool, opposed to a heroic hunk, and I just can’t have that!


	13. FIRST CAME GEORGE, THEN CAME MARRIAGE, THEN CAME JOHN IN A BABY CARRIAGE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start of chapter notes: 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This chapter contains strong references to suicide, gender inequality and mental ill health. I therefore suggest that anybody who finds these topics upsetting maybe sidesteps this chapter or approaches it with caution. Although, the most explicit paragraph has been pin-pointed for you, so should be easy to avoid. I can’t stress enough that any negative phrases used are NOT my personal opinions but are there to reflect the themes of the story, the feelings of the characters, and of course, the rather ugly stigmas of Victorian society. I truly hope that nobody finds any of the content distressing. I seriously wrestled with the idea of how to approach George Thornton’s suicide, but then decided that if I was going to highlight this painful subject at all, then I should be bluntly honest and do the sadness and trauma of both his passing and of the subject justice. Sometimes the role of literature is not to make everything happy or entertaining, but to explore the suffering in the world around us. So please, don’t be mad and I send you lots of love and cuddles.
> 
> On another note, you will see that this chapter and the next contains a lot of funny words and phrases, which are Victorian slang. In order to avoid the content being littered with * signs, I shall just let you read it and include a glossary at the end of both chapters.
> 
> And lastly, thank you again to Elizabeth Hades for your ongoing comments and critiques, you dear lady, are a chuckaboo, hehe!

CHAPTER 13:

FIRST CAME GEORGE, THEN CAME MARRIAGE, THEN CAME JOHN IN A BABY CARRIAGE

While one mother sat worrying about her daughter, another mother stood across town, worrying about her son.

Mrs Hannah Thornton stood beside the drawing room window, as stoically still as a sentry. Her customary position afforded her an obliging vantage point from which to keep watch, as from her well-worn nook of the room, she could gaze directly upon the bustling yard below, with all the brisk toing and froing of the textile trade. As was her routine, she had settled herself before the glass and her eagle eye judiciously surveyed the comings and goings of the energetic enterprise that was her son’s empire.

It had been her practice for many years to pass the time of day in this manner. She had heard the workers refer to her as the black raven, the ominous guardian of the factory, who presided over them all from her lofty perch, like a menacing presence. She had to smirk at the comparison, for it reminded her of the Tower of London and its resident ravens. Legend has it, should they all fly away from the fortress grounds, the stronghold will dissolve to dust and the monarch will fall, casting a plague of trials and tribulations upon England for a thousand years. Yes, she deemed the analogy fitting, for as capable as her John was, she could not help but pride herself on the idea that if she were ever to desert her post, or forsake Marlborough Mills, the machines and mortar would crumble into rubble, like the temple in the story of Samson, and not a stone of this magnificent cotton kingdom would be left standing.

She would never admit it, but Hannah Thornton was not always content to spend her solitary hours simply sitting and sewing. That is, she did keenly enjoy the undertaking and found much solace and purpose in her needlework, which she readily engaged to produce or repair several practical items for the household. In fact, she was certain that she had not needed a new pair of stockings in nearly four years, nor an underskirt in five, or a nightgown in six, for she mended them all with her own nimble fingers. Indeed, with a self-satisfied smile, Mrs Thornton had to concede that her steady and neat hand could rival that of any paid seamstress, and she privately praised herself for cultivating such an aptitude for embroidery.

And yet, during her lonely and wistful interims, of which there had been many, Mrs Thornton did think that she wished she could do more with her talents and devote her feminine abilities towards goals of greater consequence. Over the years, she had dutifully submitted to the men around her, first in her father’s circle, then her husband’s, and now her son’s. She could not deny that despite her outward expression of deference and decorum, she had come to find that men in general were complete pigeon-livered hornswoggles. She recoiled at the memory of the many potbellied pigs who had congregated around the trough of her table throughout the years. Some had been family members, some had been friends, and in recent years, they had consisted of the manufacturers of Milton. These men may have been her superiors in terms of their lawful and societal rights, and she was obliged to show them due regard as associates of her son, but really, they were deplorable philistines. She had sat on the side-lines as they stuffed their sordid snouts and proceeded to congratulate themselves on being masters of the universe, when in reality, their minds were as narrow as the eye of her needle.

The way they talked of politics and poets when most of them could not even tell you who the current Prime Minister was – total twaddle!

The way those jollocks crammed their faces and drank their weight in wine – absolutely disgusting!

The way they applauded themselves for being glib businessmen, leaders of a modern nation – sheer hooey!

The way they discussed and demeaned women, while they themselves were bloated, blotchy, and belching – those gibface flapdoodles!

Yes, as they preached their arrogance, they all just spat and dribbled total tripe, claptrap, tosh and drivel. It was as much hogwash and humbug as any submissive hostess had been forced to tolerate. She recognised that it was not her place as a woman to question the stronger sex, but honestly, sometimes their infuriating idiocy made it almost impossible.

She knew John felt the same. Her son said very little, but she could tell that behind his passive façade, that he was suppressing the desire to challenge them for their laughable philosophies, their imprudent decisions, and their remorseless ethics. While other men were no more than inane imbeciles, her son was truly intelligent.

Yes, from the day she had come kicking and screaming into this discriminatory world, Hannah’s sex had sealed her fate. Her lack of a dangling appendage between her legs had meant that instead of being awarded the privileges of liberty and opportunity, she had instead been saddled with the less satisfying purpose of loyally supporting the abject men in her life. Yet, for as long as she could recall, she had clandestinely yearned to shed the cage of her confined corset, and in its place, to don the breeches of brotherhood. Yes, it had been an unlucky roll of the gender dice on the day Hannah had been conceived, for she had more fortitude, more backbone, more drive, and more hunger for success than just about any fellow she had ever encountered.

Any man other than John, that was.

She understood that if she had been born a boy, even one as poor and pathetic as a beggar, she would have toiled relentlessly to ascend to the heights of triumphant achievement. She would have employed her shrewd determination to build herself a life of purpose and prestige, that could equal that of Queen Victoria herself. Yes, she may have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but Hannah Thornton had the heart and stomach of a king, and a king of England too! 

Directing her eyes down towards her pile of mending, which rested on the small sewing table, she sighed…life was terribly unfair.

It was for that reason precisely that she remained determined to stand by the window in all her regal authority, day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute. In his infinite wisdom, God may have seen fit to mould her with his potter hands into a warrior of a woman, but in spite of all her glorious gifts, Hannah was still _just_ a woman. Maybe one day her sex would experience something akin to equality, but with a sorrowful soul, she knew that she would never witness such reform in her lifetime, for such radical ideas somehow seemed better suited to fairy tales than realism. No, her fate would forever deny her the chance to be a Master among men, but she could still strive to safeguard and sustain the one who had the chance to be everything she could never be – her John.

Mrs Thornton cherished her son with such a fierce and fearsome passion that even she was startled by it at times. Truth be told, he was really the only man she had ever sincerely respected. Her own father, Mr Jeremy Irons of Milton, had not lived up to his name, for Iron was certainly not a term she would have used to describe his feeble nature. He had been the manager of a warehouse, a small but modest operation on the fringes of town. Nevertheless, he had only been given the position because the company belonged to his father-in-law. Mr Irons was not a bad man really; not given to beating or berating any of his family, but still, Hannah had never been able to admire her father. He had passed through life as idly as a sloth, doing the bare minimum, and had never sought to accomplish success or recognition, never attempting to elevate his middling status in society. He was comfortable in his undemanding role, which he often neglected, choosing instead to spend most of his time drinking, sleeping, or tot-hunting for wanton wagtails. No, his daughter had thought very little of him.

Then came Mr Thornton, _her_ Mr Thornton.

Hannah Irons had never been a sentimental creature. She had never batted her eyelashes at boys or blushed at them from behind her fluttering fan, playing silly games to attract their attentions and affections. It seemed such a featherbrained thing to do. However, her prudery derived from more than priggish propriety, for the shy lass had always assumed that men would not care for her or favour her simple features, for it was beauty and not brains that suitors admired when they were on the prowl. She would watch as the local men huddled together like gal-sneakers and greedily observed the ripe maidens before them, whispering their fetid words of lechery. Hannah Irons had often felt like she was one cow of many, being paraded in front of potential buyers on market day, who only valued the feminine forms before them as mere commodities, ones which would be both prized and priced based on their appealing flesh; their robustness to withstand the boorish attentions of a randy and rutting bull; and their capacity to bear the offspring of their loins. While all the other ladies had tittered on the arms of their eligible beaus, Hannah had faded into the background, like a ghost at the banquet, that nobody noticed, that nobody minded, that nobody even cared to see. No, she had never thought she would know love, for after all, what man would want to pick such a plain little wallflower as she?

But then _he_ had arrived.

He was irresistible; tall and handsome, with hair that shone like the sun, and his carefree, cheery disposition had melted her heart, which she had begun to fear might be fated to dwell in perpetual winter. She had adored him instantly. George Thornton had been a bright and infectiously buoyant man, always trusting that life was worth living. He had been entertaining, exciting, enthusiastic, and he had broken through her barren bastion of emptiness, with just one devastating glimpse.

She had timidly observed him at parties, marvelling at his easy temperament and zealous nature. He never seemed downcast but laughed at everything and the world around him was perpetually bathed in the wonderful warmth of his inviting presence. With his rich, booming voice, that sent stirring shivers up her spine, he had pronounced his bold and impressive intentions for his life and had made everything seem so incredibly hopeful. Mr Thornton was so different to any man she had ever met, and at the same time, she questioned her fascination with him, for his vivacious personality was so foreign to her own careful and restrained one.

But then…he had looked at her.

She remembered it as if it were yesterday. They had been at a festive gathering at Sinead Cusack’s, the Irish heiress’s estate, and Hannah had stood demurely in a dim alcove, studying him with starry-eyed reverence. She never thought for a moment he would even detect her existence. But then, he had turned and looked directly at her, as if with deliberate intent. His cobalt eyes had penetrated her very soul, and in that instant, she knew it, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and until death claimed her as his own, she was lost to George Thornton.

It was the beginning of something beautiful.

He had abruptly left his companion, striding away in the middle of a sentence, and had stalked across the room to reach her, his probing gaze never once flitting from her face. He had held her hand and the two had remained motionless, as if the room around them had dissolved into nothing, taking away with it all the colours, all the lights, all the chattering people, and all the irrelevant cares of life itself. They were the only two people who mattered.

Three months after, they had married and nine months later, John had joined them. She recollected holding her darling boy in her arms, his head already covered in a mop of thick, black hair, and his curious blue eyes drinking in all the intriguing wonders around him. He was perfect. For a while, their little family was all that Hannah could ever have hoped for; everything had seemed as rosy as the gardens of Babylon, without a weed in sight, without a blemish to the loveliness of their idyllic marriage.

But it had not lasted.

Hannah had soon uncovered that her husband had his hidden flaws. For all his irresistible sparkle and vitality, he was equally erratic. Some days, his spirit would soar to the highest heights, then on others, it would come crashing down and plummet to the depths of despair. He seemed to fluctuate between these two poles of feelings as frequently as the maids changed their bed linen, and the disparity between his opposing moods was unsettlingly stark.

During his positive moments, he would feel as if the world were his oyster and he could achieve anything. He had so much gusto, so much energy, that he would make grand schemes and plans, each as outlandish and outrageous as the last. He was always brimming with merriment and would rush through the door, lift his wife into the air, chuckle like a child, and then with a mischievous glint in his eye, he would bed her with a potency and stamina that still made her thighs tremble to this day.

He was also prone to lavish spending, sometimes coming home after purchasing a new and expensive suit or top hat, when he already had dozens of untouched items in his wardrobe. He would also shower his wife with gifts in the form of necklaces, earrings and brooches, all presenting a rainbow of precious stones like diamonds, emeralds and rubies. On one occasion, he had even returned after commissioning a new carriage of stately proportions, even though they lived in the centre of the city and had neither the need, nor the space to house such a monstrosity. Goodness! He really had a fondness for buttering up bacon, as her own mother would have said. George was a canny and conscientious businessman, but still, a gentleman’s bank balance only stretched so far. Hannah often worried where his increasing debts would take them, whether one day there would be bailiffs banging down the door, carting her husband away to debtor’s prison, and leaving her alone to assume the responsibility of providing for their little ones. Whenever she had asked him, he would either change the subject, clearly afraid to consider the consequences of his mania, or else, he would grab her by the shoulders, shake her forcefully, and promise that tomorrow was a new day, full of promise and prosperity.

The only encouraging element of his agitated phases was his enhanced adoration for his children. During these times, he would devote countless hours to spending time with Johnny. The two of them would go for long walks over the Darkshire moors, stretching their ridiculously long legs, and on occasions, George would take his son fishing, shooting, or horse riding. It was from George that the lad had inherited his love of tools and engines, for when John was a boy, locomotives were beginning to grow in number and popularity, so the two of them would go off on an adventure, hand-in-hand, thrilled to touch and travel on the invention known as the train. But John did not only marvel at the giants of the modern age but delighted in even the smallest of mechanisms. He would sit for hours playing with his father’s pocket watch, and she recalled how on one wet summer afternoon, they had remained in companionable silence, cautiously taking apart the instrument, studying it, and then meticulously putting it all back together again.

However, George had not forgotten his other child. When Fanny was tiny, the blonde babe was the apple of his eye and both he and she were never more content than when her father bounced her on his knee, listening to her shrill giggles. He would get down on all fours and crawl around on the floor chasing after the teetering toddler, imitating a tiger and revelling in her squeals as he caught her up in his arms and pretended to eat her toes. Indeed, she had been her father’s daughter for sure and, in many ways, Hannah felt her husband lived on through Fanny, for the two were more similar in both looks and temperament than she cared to concede.

But just like the story of Joseph, the times of abundance could not endure indefinitely, and the famine soon arrived to lay waste to the Thornton’s hopes.

Just as day surely gives way to night, his delight would change to depression. On his dejected days, he was a different man. He would hardly leave the house and would sleep endlessly, as if cursed and compelled to rest for all eternity. Then when awake, he would sit staring at nothing, his usually animated eyes turning to expressionless pools, which spoke only of him being lost in a distant land of desolation, where she could never reach him, never entice him home. He showed no interest in anything or anyone, not even rousing when John or Fanny came near. It was like all the light had gone out of his life and no amount of love could save him.

Then, one day, it happened.

Fifteen years, seventeen weeks, and thirteen days ago, George Thornton had made the difficult decision to give up on this mortal world and to forsake his wife and children. One day, a business acquaintance had told him of a fantastical speculation that was gripping the city of London and was apparently as safe as the Bank of England itself. He had seduced the gullible George with guarantees of fortune and had declared that any man with two shillings to rub together would be a fool not to invest in the venture of the century. Of course, the whole rum scheme had been no more than an underhand scam, orchestrated by a boardroom of greedy bankers, conspiring for new ways to swindle every penny out of the unsuspecting victims of their corruption. The fraud had collapsed like a house of cards and had sent the financial sphere spiralling into chaos, and George Thornton had folded along with it.

(Please be advised: the paragraph below contains explicit references to suicide).

He had gambled everything they had and when the game was up, they were ruined beyond the point of no return. With the prospect of confessing all to his long-suffering wife and resigning his family to the workhouse, George Thornton had taken the only means of escape he could think of. He had acquired a gun from goodness knows where, locked himself in his study, and after several glasses of Dutch courage, had blown his brains out. Hannah’s heart still slammed against her ribs at the memory of finding him. She had been disturbed by the eerie silence coming from his office and had warily opened the door, somehow knowing what awaited her. She had frozen at the sight of his lifeless body just sitting there, his head bowed as if dozing, his blood splattered across the room like messy specks of red paint. The image may be inhumanely bleak and blunt, but it was the truth, and there was no hiding from it.

‘George,’ Hannah had whispered, but of course, there had been no reply.

The reality was, to some degree, that Hannah Thornton had been relieved. It was a heartless thing to think, she knew, but there it was. In many ways, she had been fond of her husband and had remained faithful to him through thick and thin. At times he was as wonderful as a dream, and at others, he was any wife’s worst nightmare. But in a strange way, she felt a surreal comfort in his passing, for even although her life had become hard as a widow tainted by scandal, she would no longer feel the turbulent strain of anxiety, constantly wondering where her husband’s next whim would take them. She was also thankful for dear George himself. How anarchic and exhausting his existence must have been, being unwillingly pulled between such foreign extremes of joy and woe. He was at peace now. It was all over for him.

Sometimes Hannah Thornton felt oddly sorry for George and pitied his pain, for it must have taken a great deal of grief and mettle to commit such an act. But her husband’s desertion had come at a price, or perhaps better described as a penalty. It was a consequence that would cast a long and gloomy shadow on the remaining life of a widow. Hannah was reluctant and regretful to acknowledge it, but her quicksilver relationship with the men in her life had left her void of the capacity to properly love. In many ways, she adored George, but his narcissism had always wounded her, and it meant that she now no longer truly knew how to accept love or give it. After all, what was love?

_Some say love it is a river, that drowns the tender reed. Some say love it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed. Some say love it is a hunger, an endless aching need._ No, surmised Mrs Thornton. To her _love was, and is a flower, and motherhood its only seed._

Yes, when George had killed himself, he had also slain Hannah’s faith in any kind of love, other than that between a mother and her babies. That is why when gently stroking her wedding band and thinking of all that she had lost, her heart soon turned to stone, for she could perhaps understand him, but she would _never_ absolve him. No, for there was one thing she could never and would never forgive him for. What had really cut her soul as a parent, was what it had all done to John.

Her treasured boy. John had always been a remarkable child. Even from a very young age, he had been different. He was resolutely principled, never once engaging in any tournaments or tomfoolery that he deemed dishonest. He was a stickler for the rules, even to the point of infuriating the other children. He had always stood up for what was right, even when faced with vicious opposition. He had come home black and blue one evening, at the age of ten, after doggedly defending a younger boy from a throng of older thugs, who had attempted to pummel the audacity out of John, but he had remained stubborn and steadfast in his ideals. While his mother had cleaned his wounds, his father had shaken his head, at a loss as to why anyone would withstand a thrashing for the sake of protecting another. John had merely raised his chin and replied: ‘A true man never backs down, not when his integrity is at stake.’

Indeed, John was stoic in his character, and was a blatant contrast to his father, who was in many ways flighty, fickle, and shamefully selfish. John had always been quiet; in fact, he rarely said a thing, but when he did speak, there was not only economy to his words, but profound acumen, revealing a shrewd and calculating mind. Oh! Even although his mother was gratified by his achievements and marvelled at his status as a Master and Magistrate, she quietly wished he had been given the right to choose his path in life. He should have gone to Oxford or Cambridge. Mrs Thornton had never thought much of scholarly men like Mr Bell, but John was not stuffy or shiftless, no, he could have spent a few years contentedly buried in books and then returned to take his place as a proud merchant of his hometown. She often wondered who and what her son would have been if he had been afforded the chance. A lawyer? Possibly, for he had such a passion for championing what was right. An engineer? Maybe, for even to this day, he retained a boyish enthralment with machines, never happier than when he was stuck underneath one, tinkering with gears and cogs, emerging as if he had bathed in grease and oil. A politician? Perhaps, for he had a commanding presence and astounding oration, which could captivate any audience. She could just see him standing up in parliament, his fine figure dominating the benches, his values and visions progressing the future of England.

He could have been anything he wanted.

But alas, his father’s weakness had clipped John’s wings, instead, cutting him down and flinging him into a pit of poverty. George’s sudden demise had put such a heavy burden on John’s young shoulders. She would never forget the memory of him coming home from school on that fateful afternoon. He had entered the house, her tall, lanky boy, with his dark hair, pimpled forehead, and adolescent grin. Then it had all withered. In mere minutes, he had transformed from a boy to a man and there was no going back.

Hannah Thornton had watched helplessly as her son had worked himself to the bone. He had sacrificed everything to keep his family safe and secure. She had wept to see him stumble into his bed late at night, only to rise a few hours later, drained in both body and mind. He never smiled, he never laughed, he just toiled. Mrs Thornton had never turned her back on God throughout all her misfortunes. Not when she had found out that her father had a mistress and two other children in Princeton. Not when she and George had lost their firstborn daughter to measles. Not when her husband had departed this life without saying goodbye. Not when her family had been thrown into penury. But seeing the hardships that John had been forced to endure, she had made a solemn promise to God Almighty, that if her son suffered more than his strong but weathered spirit could endure, she would denounce the Lord without hesitation and cast her faith into the fires of Hell.

But, thankfully, over time, John had managed to drag himself up from the trench of deprivation and had taken his proper place amongst the manufacturers of Milton, becoming a revered Master and even Magistrate. Not only that, but John was widely regarded as one of the most, if not the most successful of all Darkshire’s businessmen, for he was known for his brains and brawn alike, making him esteemed by his peers, feared by his workers, and prized by all the ladies. She watched with unequalled pride, as he had ascended from obscurity, to becoming the toast of the town. He was finally settled. He was finally fulfilled. He was finally home.

Then _she_ had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glossary for this chapter:  
> Twaddle, hooey, tripe, claptrap, tosh and drivel: Nonsense, rubbish.  
> Pigeon-livered: Cowardly.  
> Hornswoggles: A fraud or cheat.  
> Tot-hunting: Scouring the streets in search of pretty girls.  
> Wagtail: A promiscuous woman or prostitute; less commonly, a dissolute man.  
> Gibface: An ugly person, especially one with a heavy lower jaw.  
> Flap-doodle: A sexually incompetent man, who is either too young to have had sex or one who is too old to attempt it ("flapdoodle" also referred to nonsense or rubbish and lady parts in the same time period).  
> Jollocks: A fat person.  
> Gal-sneaker: A man devoted to seduction.  
> Butter up bacon: Too much extravagance.  
> This is not an example of Victorian slang, but the reference to Mrs Thornton having the heart and stomach of a king, is a reference to Elizabeth I’s speech at Tilbury in 1588 in response to the threat of the Spanish Armada.


	14. A PUFF OF SMOKE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for your lovely comments! I was worried people wouldn’t like the last chapter due to its depressing and explicit content, but I was amazed to find that people enjoyed it and found it a realistic, intuitive, and moving insight into Mrs Thornton’s past and her subsequent character development, especially as John’s mother.

CHAPTER 14:

A PUFF OF SMOKE

With a grimace of contempt, Mrs Thornton fought the bile of resentment that swarmed in her stomach, at the thought of a certain young lady.

She puckered her lips and tried to prevent a few choice (and rather unladylike) slurs from slipping out.

That hoity-toity little madame!

How she loathed Margaret Hale!

Who was she to treat John thus? To trample over his heart, like it was worth no more than the dirt beneath her boots.

Mrs Thornton sighed despairingly.

If truth be told, as a mother of a beloved son, she might hate Margaret Hale, but she feared her even more. As soon as John had first mentioned the young lady, her maternal instincts had pricked, and she knew it – her Johnny was awestruck. Mrs Thornton had almost given up on the idea of John ever getting married. It was not that John was old, for he had many prime years ahead of him, and it was not as if he were undesirable, for indeed, she did not miss the persistent lally-galling of all of Milton’s eligible ladies, as they fawned over him, artfully scheming to win his court. It was more that John had never shown the slightest interest in the fairer sex. It seemed that the fires of his masculine desire had never been stoked by a pretty face. It appeared that he was immune to every flick of their hair, swish of their hips, flash of their decolletage, or subtle stroke of his strong arms, as they all incessantly competed for his attention. No, he was oblivious to all of it. He had never flirted, had never courted, and had never so much as spoken about a lass with a hint of anything other than polite indifference. In fact, she could not be sure, but she had an inkling that he had never even _known_ a woman, unusual as it was for a man, especially for one as thoroughly red-blooded as John Thornton.

Mrs Thornton had begun to think that John would stay a bachelor and in truth, the suggestion had not upset her. She trusted that Fanny would marry and that would grant her grandchildren, but as for John, she had grown fond of the idea of him and her remaining together in their comfortable co-dependency, each appreciating the other unobtrusively. Over the many trying years, she had gotten used to being his right hand, his confidante, his advisor, his pillar of support.

But then, _she_ had come.

The first time John had mentioned taking tea with the Hales, she had been baffled to learn that he planned to make the unnecessary effort of returning home to change his clothes. Why on earth should he dress to take tea with a _renegade clergyman_? She imagined with a snort that the old parson was most likely blind as a bat anyway, after spending so many years studying those dusty old books. Why should he care if John’s lapels were a smidgen sullied from the exertions of an honest day’s toil and trade? But then, he had alluded to the daughter, and his mother had seen it as clear as day, John Thornton’s attention had finally been captured. He had a playful twinkle in his eyes, a light-hearted spark that she had not witnessed since he was a lad. It all made sense now. He was dressing for _her_. Mrs Thornton had to admit that this sudden turn of events had stunned her like a landed fish being smacked against a stone, but she had decided to pay it little heed, hoping that it was just a passing fancy, a flitting infatuation, a mere attraction, that would fade as surely as the seasons did.

But it did not.

Mrs Thornton had detected an alteration in her son’s behaviour over the following weeks. He would move between being agitated and energetic, to suddenly becoming sullen and disagreeable. In fact, the presence of this abrupt transformation had alarmed her intently, for in the uneasy recesses of her mind, John’s unpredictability had begun to remind her of George. Perhaps the son was more like the father than she had first thought. But she soon pinpointed the reason for his changeability. She found that he was as eager as a puppy every time he was due to go to the Hale’s home; humming or whistling as he made ready to leave, inspecting himself in the mirror with excessive scrutiny, straightening his cravat countless times, and winking at his reflection. But when he returned after his lessons, he was like a different man, for as he slogged up the stairs in a strop, it was like watching that same puppy recently scorned, and shuffling along with its tail between its legs.

It was not long after his first visit to Crampton for tea, that there had been a distinctly odd event. Mr Hale had paid them an unexpected visit, to lend John some books for his perusal and, ‘intellectual nourishment.’ This was a phrase which Mrs Thornton had deemed as pretentious hokum. Really! The only sustenance a real man needed was a good night’s rest and a hearty breakfast before going out into the world to earn an honest crust. Did Mr Hale not know that Mr Thornton was an important and busy man, who had little time for futile leisure?

At any rate, the new maid had been flustered and, in her confusion, had announced: ‘The Hales,’ opposed to: ‘Mr Hale.’ John had just left the parlour to attend to matters at the mill, but had come back with disquieting speed, his face a little too bright and keen. When the parson had entered the room, John had overlooked him, quite literarily, for he had towered above his guest and was scanning the space behind, almost as if he were looking for something, or someone, that was missing. His eyes darted in all directions and he even spun in a hasty circle, to ascertain that nobody was hiding at the rear of him. When it transpired that Mr Hale was quite alone, John had looked crestfallen, his excited countenance collapsing into a frown. As he conversed with his oblivious tutor, John’s shoulders had sagged, and he seemed to shrink a good ten inches as he thrust his hands in his pockets and moped like a child who had been denied a treat.

Then there had been that morning when she had seen him talking to her in the yard. Mrs Thornton’s maternal feathers had been more than a little ruffled, for she had never seen John stop to speak for so long, and so intently, not even with his overseer when it concerned his business. His conduct was even more incongruous, given the fact that it was market day, and he surely did not have a moment to spare. Even from her perch high above the scene, she could detect the friskiness in his eyes, the puckish smile on his lips, and the way he leaned in towards his companion. Yes, the girl had him infatuated. It was almost as if Miss Hale had taken up a rod, cast her line, and was reeling in her catch. Honestly! As if Miss Hale had come to enquire about finding the name and address of a good doctor ─ what codswallop! A servant could easily have been sent. But then John had glanced up, seen his mother, took hold of his senses, and skuttled off. She often wondered if he had not spotted her, whether he would have stayed and conversed with Miss Hale until the cows came home.

Over the next month, it had only gotten worse.

Over the prevailing days and weeks, she had noticed a strange shift in her son’s manner. John had always been a simple man, domestically speaking, for he liked his routine and was quite content to go about it, without fuss and without seeking attention. In many ways, he was the ideal man to have about the house, for although his size alone should have made him an incumbrance, he was somehow always unobtrusive and undemanding. Lately, however, his habits had taken a most peculiar turn.

John had always been a quick eater, so much so, that his mother often fretted that he would choke, for he practically inhaled his food. This tendency most likely derived from years of near starvation as a young man, when he had gone many a day without a decent supper, causing him to now not only be grateful for his gruel, but to wolf it down with ravenous intent. Again, he was always so industrious, that he hardly ever had the leisure to sit and dine properly, so his meals were hasty affairs. But now, well, the man would just sit with his fork in hand and gawp at his plate, pushing his food around and making precarious stacks with his potatoes. 

There had been one evening when his mother had to put her foot down and insist that he mind his manners. John had been in the middle of devouring a bone of meat in his usual way by holding the joint in his hand and tearing at the flesh like a famished hound. It was most uncivilized, she knew, but it was an inclination he had picked up from her uncle Jonas, who John had always admired as a wean. The kin had been in the navy and after many weathered years at sea, he had become as uncouth as a heathen, and some of his table manners had rather rubbed off on John, who when they dined alone, did tend towards an unfortunate kitsch or two. But this time, he seemed to forget his task and just stared off into the distance, banging the mutton against his sideburns and sighing. Mrs Thornton had been appalled and clipped him around the ears, reminding him not to play with his food. Really! The man was thirty years old, for pity sake! Oh dear! It was as if his thoughts were somewhere else entirely…probably the other side of town. Then suddenly, something would pull him back to the present, usually Fanny’s shrill voice, and he would startle, blink, and resume chewing. 

She had watched him peeking and prying around the house with a most quizzical mien. He would scrutinize the drapes, the furniture, the ornaments, the wallpaper, and pore over them for some time, before either huffing crabbily with a shake of the head, or grinning wistfully as he nodded his approval. John had never cared tuppence for their decor before and had left such decisions to the established preferences of his mother. Yet now, his curious assessment of their home had begun to make her doubt her own simple tastes. After inspecting a spoon or a chair for what seemed like an age, he would then grunt, wander off and simply mumble: ‘I wonder what she...’

It was most unconventional indeed.

Then one afternoon, she had gone into her son’s bedroom to look for Fanny’s piano music, which she had accused her brother of stealing and concealing, for John had become exasperated by his sister’s lumbering fingers relentlessly assaulting the ivory keys. On one occasion, he had marched into the parlour, brought the piano lid crashing down, and sternly forbade her from playing for the rest of the day, grumbling that she was murdering Mozart and causing the composer to turn in his grave. As she had hunted for the missing sheets, Mrs Thornton had spied a series of books lying on his bed. She had scoffed, assuming they were pointless volumes on history and philosophy from Mr Hale’s library, but on closer inspection, she was perturbed to find that they were tomes on the most impractical of all subjects, love. Well, they were editions of poetry and sonnets, but John had folded down the pages of several sections, including Shakespeare’s sonnet 116. The man had even gone so far as to circle key passages and scribble a few illegible notes in the margins, but to Mrs Thornton’s horror, she was aghast to see more than one entry that looked like he had written: ‘Margaret.’

Still, the most bizarre of his new behaviours had arisen when John had settled down one week with his parish pickaxe of a nose buried in the Sunday papers, as was his general custom after church. But on this occasion, he sat for a good half hour without turning the page and to make things infinitely more inexplicable, the newspaper was upside down. Mrs Thornton had been about to say something, but was so concerned by the private smile that curled at the corner of his lips, that she dared not breathe a word, for fear of what, or whom, he might bring up in response. It was not until Fanny had mentioned his error and had taken great amusement in this nanty narking by pointing out his blunder, that John had turned as red as a radish, stood, slammed down The Times, stomped out the parlour, and muttered that he could get no peace.

Even although she strove to ignore it, Mrs Thornton knew all too well what the source of his distraction was. For indeed, at the morning service, a certain young lady had been situated near them and Mrs Thornton had perceived that her son had spent more time with his head slanted in her direction, than he did tilting it towards the minister or his hymn book. In fact, when one song had commenced, John had remained sitting for several awkward seconds, whilst everybody else in the congregation rose, for he was completely engrossed by the side of the girl’s face and the sight of her comely mouth moving as she began to sing.

Yes, his conduct had been verging on the obscene. But once again, the folly had not ended there…if only.

Her suspicions had been confirmed when Mrs Thornton had reviewed her preparations for the annual dinner party with her children. Mrs Thornton had not failed to notice that John had worn an impassive mask as she rattled off each name on her list, but as soon as she had mentioned the Hale’s, he had stirred into life. To make matters even more unsettling, when Fanny had begun criticising the newcomers to Milton, he had responded with uncustomary interest, going so far as to heatedly defend the girl, as if his sister had personally offended him by extension. He had even bidden his mother to be kind to Miss Hale, to try and befriend her. It was not the request that had unnerved Mrs Thornton, but the fervent and earnest entreaty in his tone. When she had asked him whether he had formed an attachment towards Miss Hale, he had merely smirked and turned away, but to her mounting panic, he had not denied it.

But alas, she was ashamed of herself, for Mrs Thornton had let her jealous tongue run wild and had commenced to cut her own dear boy down as if she were felling a mighty tree. Yes, she had suggested that Miss Hale would not want him and would laugh in his face at the very idea of it. Oh! Why had she said such a wicked thing? Poor John. He had whipped his head round as quick as a flash and glared with a face like a wet Wednesday. He had feigned self-preservation by claiming that the southern beauty meant nothing to him, that he was indifferent to her, but a mother always knows, and indeed, Hannah knew. She knew because after returning to the drawing-room after conversing with cook, she had discovered him examining her seating chart for the party, something he would never usually care a fig about. But keeping a safe distance, she could see that he was checking who was sitting next to him and sulked when he discovered that it was Miss Latimer. Then, tracing his finger along the page, he had abruptly stopped over a certain name, sitting halfway down the table. There, his long digit had gently stroked at it, as if by doing so, the person would appear before him, like rubbing a lamp to conjure up a genie in the story George used to tell the children before they went to bed.

Then came the dinner party.

Mrs Thornton had started to stew when the pretty little slip of a thing had arrived. Even the matriarch had to permit that she looked very fetching in her simple but handsome gown. With a grumble, she was forced to acknowledge that Miss Hale did have a certain charm about her, and she was undoubtedly a proper bit of frock, as her grandmother Irons would have said. She was not an overly trimmed peacock like Fanny and her friends. No, there was something modest and understated about Miss Hale’s appearance, but it was nonetheless fresh, inviting, appealing, and she had to admit with a grimace…just what John would like.

Then…he had seen her.

John had caught sight of Miss Hale in the crowded room and any doubts Mrs Thornton had been clinging onto had been squashed like an insect underfoot. She watched with a racing heart as he purposefully floated over to the beautiful lass, like a moth drawn to a flame. Heavens! He had looked at Margaret just like George had looked at Hannah thirty years before. There was no mistaking it now, for whether he knew it himself or not, her boy was head over heels in love.

Then of course, there had been that disgraceful scene at the table. Really! That girl and her sauce-box of a mouth! What ludicrous ideas she had, what rebellious scruples, what self-righteous opinions! If she had been Mrs Thornton’s daughter, then she would have smacked her sassy backside until it was as pink as a primrose. She had felt so mortified for John. How dare Miss Hale come into their home and treat the master of the house in such a way, ridiculing and challenging him so publicly. Truly, Mrs Thornton had never seen or heard the likes of it before. If that was what passed for southern manners, then they could very well keep them in the south, thank you very much!

But what had really niggled at her nerves, was John’s reaction. To be sure, he had set the cheeky madame straight, and brought the conversation to a close with his natural astuteness and authority, but she knew that the exchange had affected him more than he would care to confess. She could see that he had been rattled by Miss Hale’s censure, almost as if his conscience had been unsettled. Of course, it was not that John had the slightest reason to reproach himself, no, not at all, for he was the fairest and finest of all masters, and indeed, of all men.

Then, for the rest of the evening, he had tried his utmost to disregard her and with a beguiling smile, turned his attention towards the much more suitable Miss Latimer and his other guests. She may have been wrong, but she had the distinct feeling that John was overplaying and overacting his overtures towards Miss Latimer, almost as if he was trying to make a point, or seeking to make a certain someone jealous. However, Mrs Thornton could see that despite his best efforts, John kept one eye constantly trained on Miss Hale, always watching, always listening, always admiring.

In fact, there had been a further incident, which Mrs Thornton had only learned of later. There had been a young man at the party, a Mr Armitage, who had recently taken over his late uncle’s mill in a neighbouring town. Being only twenty-three and remarkably handsome, his company was sorely sought amongst Milton society, everyone keen to meet the new and diverting recruit to the cotton trade. Consequently, Fanny had not so delicately cajoled her mother into inviting him, and the hostess had yielded, just to spare herself anymore of Fanny’s unrelenting pestering. However, it seemed that Fanny’s coquettish intentions had fallen flat, for with a petulant pout, she had found that her overt flirting had produced little fruit, as Mr Armitage was much more fascinated by Miss Hale. It appeared that the man had appreciated Miss Hale’s words of compassion during dinner and was keen to admire more of her attributes, although the sceptical Mrs Thornton could guess what that meant ─ the pig! The nerve of the man! Flirting with John’s gir - wait, no! She was not John’s girl, not now, not ever! What an absurd thought!

But according to Fanny, as she stomped her feet and watched their interaction enviously, her brother had come to join her, materialising out of nowhere, like some sort of well-groomed apparition. John had been discussing trade routes with Hamper and Watson when he had caught sight of Miss Hale and her new friend, causing his focus to be filched. He had quickly forgotten himself, choosing instead to forsake his companions and investigate this unfortunate introduction between Miss Hale and the infuriatingly good-looking scoundrel. With a glare, he had observed the two young people coyly chatting and Fanny was sure she had heard him let out a shallow growl.

‘Who is _he_?’ John had asked dryly.

‘Oh, he is Mr Armitage,’ Fanny had replied with a dreamy sigh. ‘Is he not the _most_ handsome man you ever did see?’ she gabbled, fanning herself vigorously.

John’s lips tightened into a thin and tetchy line of irritation. He took in Mr Armitage’s appearance. The man was tall, although not quite as tall as John, but was equally broad and muscular. He had a rather striking shade of auburn hair, which shone with a fierce and fetching vibrancy in the candlelight, almost like copper glowing in the brilliance of a blacksmith’s forge. His features were marbled and well chiselled, and most annoyingly of all, he gifted his companion with a relentless, over-familiar, and ridiculously charismatic smile. Yes, John had to concede that the man was not ugly – damn him!

‘He is rather breath-taking!’ Fanny declared in a giddy swoon, bringing her brother back to the moment.

‘I don’t see how,’ John nipped.

‘Oh John!’ Fanny exclaimed with exasperation. Really! Her brother could be such a bore.

‘Well, for lots of reasons,’ she started, and John had a horrible feeling she was about to relate all the rotter's superficial qualities.

He was right.

Clearing her throat, Fanny began her assessment: ‘For a start, he is only twenty-three you know, so young. It makes a pleasantly refreshing difference after years of having to make-do with you and all your ancient friends…although I suppose you are not so old, John,’ she conceded with a wrinkle of her nose, for the effort of giving her older sibling a compliment was rather taxing.

‘And he is rich, extraordinarily rich, wealthier than anybody here, I think! He has a large estate in the country, as well as a townhouse, can you believe?’ she squealed, almost drooling at the fanciful idea of it all.

‘Oh, and it gets more thrilling yet! His mother writes novels, did you ever hear of such a thing? Elizabeth Gaskell, I think somebody said. Her name is different because she remarried as a widow,’ Fanny clarified. ‘She has written a number of books and her latest one is apparently absolutely sensational. It is about a man and a woman who are from very different social circles, but despite their opposing views on everything, he fancies her silly and after a lot of childish arguments, they get married.’ Fanny almost fainted at the thought of so much romance. ‘Is it not gripping?’

‘It sounds like total tripe,’ John snorted.

‘Oh you!’ Fanny said crossly, hitting him on the elbow with her fan.

‘But evidently the male lead is devastatingly dashing. He is tall, dark and handsome,’ she squeaked. ‘He is the supressed, brooding type who seems like a cold fish, but is really deeply passionate,’ Fanny explained, almost collapsing at the thought of such a charming lover.

‘He seems like a most abysmal twirp,’ John surmised, still not taking his narrowed eyes off Mr Armitage and Miss Hale.

‘Oh, don’t be such an old grump John!’ Fanny huffed. ‘The main character has the same name as you apparently…he is a John,’ she revealed, trying to coax a little appreciation out of her brother.

‘Bully for him,’ John grunted, as he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. He watched with increasing irritation as the conversation between Mr Armitage and Miss Hale dragged on. What the blazes did they have to talk about? His jaw constricted as he saw her laugh at one of his remarks, her eyes glittering with glee. John’s fists then clenched as he witnessed the cad look Miss Hale up and down in a most perverted fashion, when she glanced away for a moment, his gaze raking over her slim waist and pronounced chest. It made John’s blood boil. He could grudgingly confess that Miss Hale may be frustratingly easy on the eye, especially tonight, but that did not give the scoundrel the right to exploit her so.

Yet just as John was about to stalk across the room and interrupt the pair, perhaps by punching Mr Armitage squarely on his beak of a nose, Fanny’s high-pitched chords disturbed his musings. She was still wittering on about the blasted book!

‘Really Fan, you read such balderdash! I should have thought you’d wish to fill your head with more instructive reading matter and much more suitable fictional role models. Your man sounds like a deplorable rogue.’

‘Who?’ Fanny asked, more than a little miffed. ‘The character from the novel, or Mr Armitage?’

‘Both!’ John concluded with a snarl.

Then casting one last lingering look at the couple before him, he thundered off cursing under his breath and grumbled: ‘What an ass!’

Fanny had not thought much of it at the time but had later commented on how odd John’s foul mood had been, given the fact that he did not know Mr Armitage. How could he dislike someone so much when he had never even spoken to him? But then again, her brother could be such a stick in the mud!

With a heavy heart, Mrs Thornton acknowledged that the time for podsnappery was over. She had almost settled on the idea of confronting John about it all the next day. She had planned to lock both mother and son in his study, guard the door, and grill him about exactly what was going on between him and Miss Hale. She was afraid to learn the truth, but Lord preserve her, she _had_ to know, even if it led to an almighty collie shangles. But then, he was nowhere to be found. She had risen early, as was her routine, but discovered that John was out. She had searched the deserted mill, presuming that he was at work in his office, but no, he was not there. She then assumed that he had attended a meeting, perhaps with the other masters, to discuss the ongoing issues generated by the strike. But as the hours ticked by, there was no word from him. It was like he had vanished into thin air. Eventually, a few minutes before midnight, he had appeared, looking both tired and tense. When she had questioned where he had been, all she got in reply was an obstinate: ‘out,’ before he disappeared upstairs, without so much as a backward glance.

Oh! Then there had been that infernal riot! Oh Lord! Why? Why did people have to be so stupid? What did those louts think they would achieve by smashing up property and assaulting people? It was rash at best and criminal at worst. And to make it a hundred times graver, _she_ had been there! Why, oh why had she been there? If only the silly girl had come an hour earlier. Mrs Thornton swore that if the sly creature had not thrown herself at John in such a reckless way, like a tempting Delilah, then he would never have felt compelled to offer for her. Well, not yet anyway, there still could have been time for his mother to persuade him that such an attachment was foolhardy. But it was too late. Mrs Thornton had seen it the moment she rushed into the room after the soldiers had arrived and perceived him knelt over her limp form on the settee. He was like a man possessed, whispering secret and sacred words of devotion, pleading for her to wake up and come back to him. She knew it was all over; John’s heart had been stolen, and by a scrumpet no less!

She would never forgive Miss Hale for refusing John – never! Who did she think she was? Rejecting her John like he was nothing. No! Mrs Thornton could not pretend she was sorry that Miss Hale was not to be his wife, but she would give her life’s blood to take away the pain that it had caused him. She knew that John attempted to put on a brave face, but his mother could tell just how much his broken heart was hurting. He had been deprived of so much in his life and it was just so unfair that even now, after all his struggles, that he was to be denied the only thing he had ever truly desired.

God! How she despised her!

With immense sadness, Mrs Thornton had noticed that in the weeks following his spurned proposal, John’s gloomy moods had become decidedly more troubling. Watching from her window, even she had to admit that his temper had curdled into something repugnant. He would storm and stomp about, always scowling, always shouting, always seething. She had even heard comments about it from Fanny, from the other master’s and their wives, and even from the tittle-tattle of the servants and factory hands as they spread their pantry-politics.

Thankfully, everyone put it down to the aftermath of the strike and John’s enduring bitterness towards the union and the challenging consequences it had placed on the mill and its master. But only Mrs Thornton knew the truth. Well, she and one other.

She had hoped that in a few days his depressive state would pass, that he would soon be swept up in the demands of business and would have little time to think on his disappointment. But no, as the weeks wore on, he only seemed to get unhappier, slipping further into his abyss of despair. But Mrs Thornton was anxious for more than one reason. For a start, she was terribly concerned about her dear son, who she could not bear to see grieving. Yet also, in the pit of her stomach, she agonised over the alarming idea that John was more like his father than she had previously realised. Perhaps he too was prone to dark thoughts. In truth, she had begun to privately fear that one day he…he…no John would never…would he?

Sighing wearily, Mrs Thornton determined for the thousandth time that she would do all she could to rescue her boy. He had fallen in love; it was bound to happen. It was just a crying shame the woman his heart had chosen was so unworthy. The thing was, that deep down, Mrs Thornton appreciated why John had feelings for Miss Hale. Margaret was clever, she was interesting, she was brave, and she was passionate, all things that underneath his shy and severe veneer, John was himself. She could also recognise that for a man who had always been feared by his fellow men and flattered by the ladies, that the stark contrast of meeting somebody who dared to defy him must have made him stand up and take notice. She could fathom that Miss Hale was a breath of fresh air in John’s lonely life, but still, Mrs Thornton prayed day and night that his feelings for her would just blow away, like a puff of smoke, and the fog of his congested emotions would finally lift, freeing him from his torment.

Yes, Hannah understood why John was drawn to Miss Hale and maybe if things had been different, his mother might have supported the match. But as it was, her own past ordeals had come back to haunt her. She could not face John making the same mistake she had. She did not want him to marry somebody with a changeable character. For a man like John, who had experienced such turmoil and trauma, he was in desperate need of stability. No, as remarkable as Miss Hale could be, better that he wed somebody dull and dependable, rather than dazzling and double-minded. Dull would keep him safe, steady, and secure. Yes, as a mother, Mrs Thornton would move heaven and earth to shield her son from any more misery, and if that meant hating Miss Hale with a ferocity that burned like the sun, then she would oblige most willingly.

Witnessing John’s anguish, Mrs Thornton had finally discerned what love was and it was not the wholesome illusion of romantic fools, but something infinitely more passionate, that possessed its victims body and soul. _Love is the heart afraid of breaking, so it never learns to dance. It is the dream afraid of waking, so it never takes the chance. It is the one who will not be taken, who cannot seem to give. It is the soul afraid of dying, so afraid, that it never learns to live._

Yes, Hannah Thornton would do whatever she could to protect her precious boy.

Turning her head back towards the window, Mrs Thornton resumed her role of surveying the teeming courtyard. She presided over the throng of hardy men, as they hoisted sacks and bales on their shoulders, loaded the rickety carts, and sent completed orders on their way. She remained like this for some time, wondering what John – wait, John!

Mrs Thornton narrowed her eyes and scanned the scene before her. _Where_ was John? It suddenly dawned on her that she had not seen her son all morning, not even for breakfast ─ his favourite meal. Hmm, perhaps he was in his office? Or repairing a machine? Or conducting business in town? Then again, she had not spotted his tall figure striding across the cobbles even once. He was a hard man to miss, his starched black suit casting a striking contrast with the grey and fraying fabrics of the worker’s clothes.

No, she had definitely not seen him all morning.

With a purposeful sweep of her stiff skirts, the black raven swooped down from her perch and descended the stairs towards the front door. As she paused on the raised balcony before the house, she noted the nervous glances that were cast in her direction and the subtle increase of speed in the hand’s work. Catching sight of Williams in the distance, she briskly marched on, determined to put her frenzied mind to rest. When she at last reached the overseer, he graciously tipped his cap and bowed his head in greeting.

‘Williams,’ she began brusquely, ‘have you seen the master this morning?’

Williams shook his head with a look of such irritating ignorance, that Mrs Thornton was tempted to slap him across his witless face. ‘No mistress, I ain’t seen him.’

The knot in Mrs Thornton’s belly tightened.

_Where_ was he?

‘I see,’ she replied, trying to calm her jittery tone. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’ she asked, glancing at his office door.

Williams did not miss her wandering gaze, but again, he simply shook his balding head.

‘No mam, begging your pardon, but I thought you’d be the one to know.’

‘Why?’ was all she could muster from her dry throat.

‘Well, I ain’t seen hide nor hair of the master all day!’ Williams stated, scratching his chin. ‘He sent a brief note this morning saying he wouldn’t be in today and to get on with work as normal. I was thinking he was maybe sickening or somethin’, but I didn’t like to snoop…’

But before Williams could finish his sentence, Mrs Thornton had spun on her heels and sped back towards the house, her poise and confidence swiftly slipping with every step. Feeling a sickening uneasiness swelling within, she had a dreadful suspicion that she knew exactly where the master was.

As she climbed the stairs towards the upper floors, Mrs Thornton hoped with every fibre of her being that Miss Hale’s hold on her son would soon pass, just like a puff of smoke from the factory chimneys, being carried away by the bitter northern wind.

Yes, while one mother sat across town planning on how she could get Margaret Hale and John Thornton together, another mother was plotting how to keep them apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOASSARY:  
> Lally-galling: Flirting in an overt fashion.  
> Hokum: Nonsense.  
> Wean: Not actually a Victorian word, but a Scottish word meaning child.  
> Kitsch: Tasteless, tacky.  
> Parish pickaxe of a nose: A prominent nose.  
> Nanty narking: A tavern term, popular from 1800-1840, that meant great fun.  
> Sauce-box: Sassy, spicy, loudmouthed person.  
> Podsnappery: Refers to a person with: “wilful determination to ignore the objectionable or inconvenient, at the same time assuming airs of superior virtue and noble resignation.”  
> Collie Shangles: A Scottish word for quarrels or rows.  
> A Propper bit of frock: A pretty and clever girl who is well-dressed.  
> Scrumpet: A girl of poor moral fibre, often thought of as a whore.  
> Pantry-politics: Talking amongst the working class, often in relation to important topics of the day, such as politics.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my Victorian slang silliness. But it has put me in mind of an idea for a short spoof. So, I want to rewrite some of the famous dialogue scenes from the book and series, but instead of having the original language, I want to include Victorian slang, so it will basically read as absolute nonsense. For instance, there is a saying that is, “don’t sell me your dog,” which means, “don’t lie to me.” So, at the end of episode 3, when John is mad at Margaret for lying, instead of his foolish passions speech, he could be like: “Miss Hale! Don’t sell me your dog!” then he storms off and she’s like…alright…weirdo! And she’s none the wiser about what he’s trying to say. It’s just a bit of a laugh and I was inspired by that episode in Friends where Joey uses a thesaurus, and nothing makes sense. But anyway, let me know if you think you’d enjoy reading that as a short spoof series. 
> 
> Also, in my role as a journalist, I have recently had this article published titled: AN IDEAL HUSBAND: Why we still swoon for historical hunks in 2020? Anyway, I thought some of you might enjoy reading it: https://www.reviewsphere.org/news/an-ideal-husband-why-we-still-swoon-for-historical-hunks-in-2020/
> 
> Again, thank you to Elizabeth Hades for being an amazing human being and for putting up with all my eccentricity!


	15. THREE TREASURED TRINKETS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So, I must begin by apologising!!! It’s been over 5 weeks since my last post - yikes! I can imagine like a lot of you, my life has been hectic of late with getting back to work full time and trying to adjust to a new role and routine. I’ve also been finishing the last assessments for my course, which is now complete ─ yayh! And I was a bit ill too, which didn’t help. So, sorry again for any disappointment. But thank you to those of you who sent kind messages full of patience and understanding, they were much appreciated. 
> 
> Still, I’ve not been creatively idle in the past 5 weeks. I’ve published my first story under, “The Thornton Tales,” which is a series of short stories and one-shots that I’m going to be writing based on John and Margaret’s marriage. The first story is up on this site and you’re welcome to look, but do be warned, it has a couple of spoilers for the remainder of this story. I’ve actually got exciting plans for A Mother’s Final Gift and The Thornton Tales, which I’ll update you about soon. 
> 
> Now, I hate this chapter! I really loathe it, it’s just clunky and blah and makes me want to puke! And it reads a bit like a script. In a way, it’s okay that it feels like a big long piece of dialogue that is a bit disjointed, because after all, this conversation is meant to be a bit confused and chaotic emotionally, plus, we all love the John/Hannah Thornton heart to hearts in the series. But it just wasn’t coming together, so I thought I may as well just get it out there, so I can get on with the story and I can always come back and edit it. Anyway, I do apologise for the crappy chapter.
> 
> And lastly, I want to send my heartfelt best wishes to you all during this complex time, as I know lots of people around the world are struggling with big challenges and uncertainties in relation to Covid19 and their health, families, employment, finances and more. I know for those of you like me in the UK, we are going into multipart new lockdowns that are scary and, in the US, you have your Presidential Elections. So yes, lots of love and God Bless! Caroline X

CHAPTER 15:

THREE TREASURED TRINKETS

Mrs Thornton streamed into the house and up the stairs, each stride equally heavy with a foreboding amalgamation of determination and dread.

_He would not have…would he?_

Her heart was hammering against her ribs as she hastened along the labyrinth of passageways towards the upper floors. A sickly panic swelled and warped within her stomach and she feared she might retch, causing her to clasp her abdomen, bent double with a shooting pain that speared her innards. She felt dizzy, as if the walls were closing in around her and the corridors were spinning, making her misstep and teeter on her skirts. She perspired, a fetid, clammy sweat, that trickled down her brow and stung her eyes like globules of saline. Her lungs heaved as they grappled for air and her corset constricted around her chest, like a viper’s vice, but for the life of her, she could not catch her breath.

_No! He would not, he could not. Could it be?_

After what felt like hours, she came to a halt outside John’s bedroom. She had stopped so suddenly, that she almost slammed into the door, which she now frowned at, for it had curiously taken on a new form, like a gate, an entryway into another realm, one which she hardly dared disturb, shrinking away from the horrors that may lay beyond. She was about to knock, but her maternal instincts soon thought better of it, for this was no time for politeness or privacy, not when...not when he could be...

Taking the handle firmly in her hand, Mrs Thornton pushed it open with so much resolve, that it flung away from her and revolving on its hinges, it fanned out and banged against the wall with a resounding thud. But as the matriarch peered inside, she was instantly seized by a terrible fright, becoming frozen on the spot, and trembling with panic.

‘John?’ she whispered.

Gawping at the scene before her, she almost fainted and had to clutch onto the door frame for support, lest her knees buckle, causing her to crumple into a heap on the floor. It goes without saying that Mrs Thornton was not a woman prone to impractical fits of collapsing, choosing instead to belittle women who were, for she had no time for such delicate damsels, disparaging them as intolerably weak and wilful. However, in that split-second, she could feel her legs wobble beneath her, and she fretted that the ground would open its jaws and swallow her whole.

Nevertheless, this was no time for cowardice, but the time for courage. In a trice, Hannah Thornton did something she had never done before, not in all her fifty years. She slowly lifted a hand to her face and with a harsh swipe, she smacked her cheek as hard as she could, striking her senses back into focus. She felt a sharp sting nip her skin, but it mattered not, for she had more important things to think of, causing her ache to wane into an irrelevant numbness that pulsated behind her teeth.

Taking an unwavering step over the threshold, Mrs Thornton forced her eyes to drag themselves up from the carpet and to concentrate on the subject of her unease, which was a man lying on the large bed, as still as a cadaver in a casket.

_Was he?_

Inching onwards and ever nearer, she paused beside the body, for unfortunately, at present, all she could detect was a body, and not the life she frantically prayed was alive and well within.

‘John?’ she repeated with greater urgency, her pitch betraying her angst.

He was _just_ lying there, as still as stone.

Observing her beloved son sprawled out in eerie silence, Mrs Thornton felt her heart wrench with distress, for he was disquietingly motionless and, even more ominously, he was wholly emotionless. There was something altogether unnatural, sinister even about his demeanour, and even although Mrs Thornton was not accustomed to being a nervous wreck, she could not help but feel a spine-chilling apprehension sneak up her back.

John, her John, it was like he was dead to the world. He did not move a muscle, he did not make a sound, and he did not acknowledge her attendance. His cobalt eyes were open, but where they were usually brimming with intensity, they now simply stared at the ceiling, void of expression. They were puffy and slightly wet at the edges, revealing that he had been crying, but worst of all, they were hollow, as if behind those usually striking orbs, his soul had perished. Then, at long last, he blinked, and Mrs Thornton let out a choking breath, both relieved and startled by his sudden and slight movement.

‘JOHN!’ she shouted, taking him by the shoulder and rattling him.

With his eyelids flickering rapidly, as if he were waking from a prolonged slumber, he twisted to look at his mother, his face dazed, suggesting that he had only just registered her presence. Mrs Thornton’s mouth went dry as she took him in. He was stretched out on the top of his rumpled bedsheets, wearing only his trousers and a shirt, which was partly unbuttoned down to his chest, as if he had begun to undress, but had then forgotten his task. She noted how strange it was to see a mass of dark hair peeking out from under the white material, for she had not seen the skin of his body since he was a youngster, reminding her that he was no child anymore, but a man. His locks were ratty, with the unruly ends sticking out at jagged angles, indicating that he had run his fingers through his mane many times since last grooming himself, which, by taking into account his scruffy state, she guessed was quite some time ago.

‘John,’ she began again, leaning forward to jiggle his arm. ‘What has happened? What are you doing here? Why are you not at the mill? Are you ill?’

She had so many questions that tumbled over each other, each screaming out for answers, but she was not sure which to ask first, nor which was the key to her son’s alarming comportment. She warily shifted nearer, almost anxious that any hasty movement might spook him. She laid a palm against his brow, trying to detect any hint of a fever that might have taken hold, but no, there was no moisture or heat exuding from his forehead. She scanned him up and down and up again, searching for any sign of injury. However, despite his dishevelled appearance, it seemed that in body at least, he was fit, signalling that whatever malady was plaguing him, it lay in his mind.

_Like his father._

When at last John did address her, his voice was rough and strained, almost as if he had forgotten how to speak.

‘Mother,’ he croaked.

‘John!’ she persisted, letting out a sigh of relief. ‘Good God! What has happened?’ she demanded to know.

But, instead of responding, John just continued with his vigil of the ceiling.

Mrs Thornton was flummoxed, thunderstruck by his aberrant lethargy. ‘John?’ she snapped.

His temple contracted. ‘I do not want to talk about it,’ he stated huskily, in a monotone that charred her nerves.

_No! This would not do._

‘You must! I have been at my wit’s end with worry! Why are you _here_? Are you unwell? Why are you not at work? Williams said you sent him a note informing him that you would not be in today.’

Mrs Thornton tried to repress the toxic spleen of resentment that festered deep within her at the fact that her son had seen fit to notify his overseer of his intentions, but for some unfathomable reason, had neglected to alert her, his most trusted confidant. It seemed that whatever had transpired and gone awry since yesterday, she was not deemed worthy of being made privy to this momentous change to both his plans and apparently, his personality. For it was well known in Milton that John Thornton had never missed a day’s work – never!

‘I did not feel like working today,’ he replied plainly, as if it were the most ordinary comment in all the world.

Mrs Thornton prickled and perched herself on the edge of his bed. She could see that she would have to approach her cross-examination with restraint and chariness if she wished to uncover the cause of her son’s malaise, however, these were two qualities that she did not instinctively possess.

‘John,’ she started again, with a pitiful attempt at buoyancy. ‘Come now, what is all this?’

Still, he flouted her, his clenched knuckles squeezing around something hidden between his fingers, but what it was, she could not be certain. Squinting, she had an idea that she could distinguish a slither of pale material poking out and a splash of something yellow.

‘John, enough! Stop this at once!’ she reprimanded, scolding him as if he were a mere child. It seemed that her attempt at self-control had failed at the first hurdle.

Mrs Thornton could not credit it. John had always been a stickler for upholding the pillars of punctuality and dependability, constantly leading by example. He was notorious for his diligence, for while other men drank, gambled, or womanised, he could be habitually found in his office, working himself to the bone, almost to the point of galling tenacity. He had never afforded himself a day off, not once. Even on Sundays when his workers rested, after church, he tended to retreat to his study, painstakingly toiling away, ensuring that every undertaking had been completed to his precise and exacting standards. Even on the rare occasions when he was ailing and the mighty John Thornton had been felled by sickness, he would still stagger out of bed and trudge to the mill, resolute in his willpower not to give into frailty or disease, stubbornly disobeying his body to the brink of exhaustion. It was well known that come showers, or shine, or snow, or storm, John Thornton could be found employed and engrossed by the affairs of business. So, for him to be in bed today, his mother knew that something must be seriously amiss.

Mrs Thornton took his hand in hers and held it tight, wishing that her strength could by some means seep between her flesh and his, invigorating his vitality once more. ‘John, you must tell me what is wrong. You have never been off work ─ never! Talk to me, please!’

Her entreaties did little to rouse him and he continued to survey the ceiling, his intermittently quivering eyes and shallow breathing the only testimony to prove he was still alive.

Confronted with his lack of cooperation, Mrs Thornton decided that she needed to be more direct if she wanted clarity. Taking a gulp of air, she asked: ‘John, where were you last night? Fanny and I returned from the Latimers and you were not at home.’

Mrs Thornton had privately hoped that John would join them at the Latimers after all, for she trusted that Miss Latimer might be able to divert him from his moping over a certain young lady. Anne may have been reserved and overly polished, perhaps a tad dreary even, but the dull deference and flattery of one who appreciated just what a catch he was, was most likely just what John needed to distract him from his disappointment and the subsequent seed of dissatisfaction that it had sown.

His scowl became scrunched in that way she recognised well. He did it when he was irritated by a stupid question, one he believed the asker should already know.

‘I was _there_ ,’ he muttered meanly.

She tilted her head. ‘ _There_? Where? The Latimers? No, you were not,’ she countered with puzzlement.

_My Goodness! – was he delirious?_

‘No,’ he retorted crossly. ‘I was _there_ …with _her_.’

Mrs Thornton stiffened. If the slap she had given herself earlier had stunned her, it was nothing compared to this disturbing admission. He had been with _her_?

She swallowed thickly and attempted to articulate her bewilderment, but as she formed the words, they became a clog of unexpressed qualms, like a repulsive bile suffocating her mouth. When the name eventually escaped her, it was laced with venom, a profound hatred that she could not suppress.

‘Miss Hale?’ she hissed. ‘You were with _her_?’

John nodded slowly.

Mrs Thornton felt a knot begin to grow and tauten in the pit of her tummy. ‘ _Why_?’

‘Because they asked me to go,’ he nipped curtly. ‘And I wanted to see her,’ he tallied, still peering upwards with a frustrating degree of uncompromised concentration.

She gritted her teeth at this abhorrent revelation. She had known that John was not over that girl, of course she knew, the agony of his thwarted desires was as plain as the nose on his face. She could see it, she could see the weight of his misery every time she looked at him, it was like a shadow of despair that followed him wherever he went, mirroring and menacing his every move, like a phantom that had been stitched onto the very fabric of his soul. Yet, she had hoped, nay, she had prayed, that the girl’s hold on him was starting to ebb away and that he was beginning to finally move on. He had hardly seen the lass in weeks and had been so preoccupied with the mill that surely providence had allowed her to fade away into irrelevance. But it seemed that being out of sight did not mean she was out of mind, begging the question of whether perhaps absence really did make the heart grow fonder after all.

Still, for all she despised Miss Hale and loathed talking about her, it seemed that Mrs Thornton had no choice if she wanted to help her son. ‘What happened?’ she pressed with hesitation, not confident that she was prepared to heed his reply.

John’s previously passive face unexpectedly furrowed, as a dark cloud passed over it, witnessing the reviving of a nightmare.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he barked in that tone of his that brooked no argument. But for better or for worse, his mother would disobey his authority, for no matter how much she respected every fibre of his character, today, at least, she refused to put up with his pig-headedness.

‘I think you should,’ she urged. ‘I think you _must_.’

John blinked again and when he spoke, his baritone timbre had never sounded so steady, nor so sombre. Tensing his grip around whatever he concealed in his fist, he stated: ‘She does not want me Mother, that is clear now.’

Mrs Thornton grimaced, but then she suddenly startled as an appalling idea dawned on her. ‘Do not tell me you asked her again, John? Please say you did not.’

He shook his head gently. ‘No, I did not,’ he replied frankly.

‘What then?’

‘I do not know exactly,’ he said, his brow knitted, as if he were struggling to decipher something unsolvable. ‘But I know now for sure that there is no hope for me. She does not want me; she does not love me, and she never will.’

Mrs Thornton began to feel the prick of panic infiltrate her typically steely nerves. There was something odd about her son’s demeanour, something she was unfamiliar with. John had never been an excessively emotive person, often presenting to others as disinterested and distant, but she could appreciate that his aloofness was simply shyness with a trace of an uncompromising and thorny temperament. In the case of John Thornton, there was never a more apt embodiment of the expression “ _still waters run deep_.” He was the type of man who thought and felt acutely, perhaps even more keenly than most, but he was disciplined, never being vulgar enough to give way to his feelings, neither crying nor laughing. 

But this, this was too much. Studying him, she had the oddest inkling that during the night, something had caused him to give way to his depressing moods, and now, he was spent, drained from the exertions of his suffering.

Mrs Thornton curled her fingers around his and stroked them softly, with quiet affection. ‘John, tell me what happened.’

He swallowed densely, as if he were preparing himself to relate a story, a saga of his sorrow.

‘Her parents invited me for tea. I think Mr Hale had missed my company. So, I went, and…’ He swallowed again and she noticed with alarm that the dimples of his eyes began to dampen as fresh tears were spilled. ‘Oh, Mother! She ─ she was so beautiful, like an angel…like a bride,’ he related raspingly, as if the memory of it alone could take his breath away.

Mrs Thornton squirmed. ‘A bride?’ What sort of twaddle was this? She even clandestinely wondered whether her son had been dreaming of Miss Hale and had become muddled between a blur of sleep and reality. She huffed at the thought of the minx intruding his dreams, for if the girl did not want to marry him, then the least she could do was leave him alone and let him be, whether that be day or night.

‘We talked and we argued….hmm…as we always do,’ he explained distractedly, a vague smile playing on his lips. ‘But something had changed, she was not so hostile as she used to be. She was nervous, we both were, understandably. But I could have sworn she was glad to see me. She looked at me. She smiled at me. She even made me biscuits, my favourite. She tended my hand─’

‘Your hand?’ his mother questioned abruptly, ‘What do you mean, _your hand_?’

John lazily lifted his right hand into the air, revealing the carefully bound bandages that swaddled the wound. She gasped and reached forward, only ceasing when he flinched at her touch. John pouted…it had not hurt when Margaret touched him.

‘Good Lord, John! What on earth?’ Mrs Thornton demanded to know, growing increasingly uncomfortable.

However, it was of no consequence, for it seemed he was oblivious to her interrogation, choosing instead to continue with his monologue. ‘I had missed her; I had missed her so damned much! God! I was starving, my soul ached for her, craving even a glimpse of her, the chance to hear her voice – anything!’ Mrs Thornton winced at her son’s unusual adoring sensibilities, but she listened closely as he persisted. ‘She nursed my hand and I held hers in mine, she…she was like an angel sent just for me, my sweet Margaret. We quarrelled, we disagreed about things I cannot even remember. She told me off more than once, Lord! – how I love it when she does that,’ he said with an uncanny chuckle, as if laughing at a private joke.

‘Then we went downstairs, and she was in my arms,’ he whispered dreamily.

Mrs Thornton smarted. ‘I beg your pardon… _she_ was in _your_ arms?’

John beamed like a schoolboy. ‘Aye,’ he re-joined with a dash of male pride. ‘I held her against me, as close as I could without breaking her. She was so warm and soft. I wanted to kiss her, so desperately.’

‘John!’ she squawked, utterly flabbergasted by his unseemly declarations. ‘Where were her parents during all this?’ she berated. ‘How could they allow such impropriety?’

‘Mr Hale was out pastoring to a neighbour and Mrs Hale had retired for the night, she was feeling tired.’

‘Huh! Likely story,’ she huffed. ‘Honestly, for a retired parson, he certainly lets a great deal of reprehensible nonsense take place under his roof and under his nose.’

But again, John was not listening. ‘And we…’

‘You what?’ she goaded, for even although he was telling her the most shocking narrative, she could not quench her frantic need to know.

‘We talked and…Mother, she was different. She did not push me away. She did not banish me. She asked me to keep coming to see them. She laughed. She blushed. She implied that she would be willing to spend time with me. She smiled…she actually smiled, _at me_.’

Mrs Thornton was growing weary of his quixotic drivel, for not only was the frivolity nauseating to her, but it also failed to clarify why her son was locked away in his bedroom like a hermit when he should be at the mill. Furthermore, she was horrified by his candid confessions of indecency, which made her wonder whether his infatuated mind had given way to psychosis and imagined all of this fanciful tale. Indeed, the notion of Miss Hale smiling at John was as farfetched to her as the vision of Fanny willingly wearing cotton. In truth, she was not sure what was more disturbing, the idea that her son had given way to immodesty or to madness.

‘Then what?’ she compelled.

John recoiled and his grave mien soon returned, eclipsing his features. ‘It does not matter,’ he decided definitively. ‘I now know she _could_ never want me,’ he issued with cracking cords. ‘She has somebody else, another suitor, a lover who she adores and who has clearly secured her heart.’

Mrs Thornton glared as she saw a solitary and stray tear begin to roll down her son’s bristly cheek.

‘Did she tell you this?’ she fizzed, unable to repress her indignation.

John groaned. ‘She did not need to. I saw it.’

Mrs Thornton’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You saw her lover?’ she scoffed. Was there no limit to this girl’s lack of decorum or decency, flaunting her beau in front of John?

‘No, no,’ he tutted. ‘I saw _the_ letter. She had written to him saying…’ Mrs Thornton watched as something strange happened. John wrapped his arms around his body and hugged himself tightly, as if trying to find a source of comfort. With a glower, he affixed: ‘It was patent that she loathes this place and cannot wait to leave it. It was also obvious that she loves him very much ─ the lucky bastard!’

Ignoring his coarse tongue, Mrs Thornton thought for a moment. Even although she could not pretend to like Miss Hale, she still found John’s account peculiar and distinctly implausible. For all her faults, Miss Hale did not seem like the sort of woman inclined to getting herself embroiled amid the indignity of an indecorous attachment. Mrs Thornton acknowledged, with some mortification, that Fanny would be much more susceptible to such featherbrained folly. If Miss Hale had a suitor, then why did people not know about him? Surely it could not be that a man of the cloth, even one as inattentive as Mr Hale, could allow his daughter to become entangled in an elicit engagement, one that required secrecy and informality. It was possible, yet it was hardly probable.

Still, in spite of her better instincts and her innate longing to besmirch Miss Hale’s character, she found herself checking: ‘Could you have been mistaken?’

John seemed to consider this theory for a minute and her heart broke as she saw a faint and fleeting light shine from his eyes. It was a glimmer of hope, a beacon of faith, a distant optimism he clung onto, a final bid to believe that Miss Hale could yet be his. But the glow was soon extinguished, and his eyes were defiled by darkness once more.

‘No. No, I do not think so,’ he muttered. ‘The letter was unmistakable in its meaning. She referred to the recipient as her, "dearest one," and she used Lennox's name. Besides, Mrs Hale tried to warn me.’

Again, Mrs Thornton was startled. ‘She tried to warn you?’ What on earth had gone on last night?

‘Yes, she talked about him, quite animatedly in fact…Henry Lennox,’ John bit out, almost as if the man’s name were the most profane example of derogatory language to ever leak from his lips. ‘He is a London lawyer. I met him briefly at the exhibition. He is an ass! But he is just what they would want for Miss Hale. He’s educated, wealthy, and refined.’

‘So are you!’ his mother protested.

‘Not like that!’ he snapped. ‘I am a manufacturer, Mother!’ She could see that he almost winced as he degraded himself, as if his entrenched feelings of inferiority burnt his spirit. ‘Mrs Hale tried to caution me, to tell me that her daughter had another admirer, somebody more appropriate, but did I listen? No! I was as bloody stubborn as ever!’ he quipped with a huff.

Mrs Thornton was not sure what to make of this admission. Part of her felt aggrieved for John and she detested the whole Hale family for abusing and degrading him so callously, especially when he had been nothing but charitable towards them. It was as if he were a mere puppet, a toy that they could pick up and play with whenever the fancy took them, but in the end, they would just toss him away and tread on the tattered remains of his fragile heart. Nonetheless, at the same time, she felt her body heave a sigh of relief, for surely this was the very thing that she had prayed for, because if Miss Hale was dedicated to another, then John was free.

‘Well, perhaps it is for the best,’ she counselled sagely. ‘At least now it is over, you can draw a line under it and move on,’ she advised. ‘John…John, my boy…she is _just_ a girl.’

It was then, that for the first time in the conversation, John seemed to be provoked into life. He sat up immediately and scowled at his mother with incensed fury, turning her blood to ice.

‘NO!’ he bellowed. ‘No Mother, she is not _just_ a girl. She is…she is, _Margaret_.’ The name fell from his lips with a sacred incantation.

She sneered and folded her arms. ‘And what, pray, is that supposed to mean?’

He was incredulous. ‘She is perfect.’

Mrs Thornton could stand it no longer. She puffed and hoisted herself, commencing to stalk around the room. ‘Do not be a fool, John! Nobody is perfect!’

‘Perhaps not, but to me, she is perfect,’ he championed. ‘She is perfect _for_ me.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, John! How can she be? Hmm?’ she questioned. ‘How can she be right for you when she rejected you so heartlessly? When she has put you through so much grief? She could have been honest with you about her lover, but no, she has dangled you on the end of a rope, teasing you like a cat with its string.’

At this slander, John sprang from his bed. ‘No!’ he yelled, raking his fingers through his hair, and pacing about like an agitated animal.

‘It is no use, John! I can see her for who and what she is. She is a temptress, a scrumpet! Miss Hale plays the innocent, but she is a southerner after all, let us not forget. These elegant ladies are well-practiced in enticing and seducing for their pleasure, only to shatter the hopes of the victims of their amusement. She has used you! She has exploited your standing in this town to improve her own diminished importance. She has turned you into a lovesick fool!’ Mrs Thornton ridiculed.

‘ _Don’t_ !’ he begged, staggering backwards as if he had been struck. ‘Don’t speak of her like that, don’t _ever_ talk of her in that way.’

Mrs Thornton was astounded. ‘You defend her…still?’ she asked despairingly.

He spun to face her and lifted his chin with rebellious resolve. ‘Always!’

Mrs Thornton sunk into the cushions of a nearby chair and rested her elbow on the arm, allowing her forehead to find a pillow in her hand. She was not usually vulnerable to headaches, but today, her head throbbed something terrible.

Peering into the pocket of her palm, she could hear the light footsteps of John’s socked feet walking towards her. She sensed the bulk of his presence as he came to a stop next to her. She saw the shift in silhouettes as he knelt by her side. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek as he thought about what to say. But most of all, she could practically smell the passion and the pain that bled from his every pore.

When he at last spoke, his voice was deep, his tenor measured, and his tone contemplative and sincere, as if he had considered it for some time. ‘Mother, I know I have been foolish,’ he admitted. ‘God knows that I have not been myself. I hate it! I truly do. I abhor what I have become. I cannot sleep, or eat, or think…I can hardly breathe. I think of her all the time and I cannot concentrate on anything else, nothing matters to me anymore – just her! She is all I care for. She is all I want. And do you know what? I would not have it any other way.’

Mrs Thornton could not utter a sound, for she felt crushed by the weight of his declaration.

‘But I have destroyed all hope I may have held onto,’ he asserted sadly. ‘I have been a fiend; I have let my true colours show and I have let her down.’

‘Nonsense! What are you talking about? John you must stop this at once. All this shaming yourself. You are a good man, and I am proud of─’

‘No Mother!’ he maintained. ‘I have let Miss Hale down and in turn, I have let myself down. I know you love me, and I thank you for your stalwart support, but no, I am just a man, I am flesh and bone, and so, I am fallible. When she rejected me, I was wounded in a way I never thought another person could ever hurt or scar me. I had always assumed my heart was too guarded, too unresponsive, that I would never be affected thus. But I was naive, Margaret…I do not know how she managed it, but she has changed me, she has damned conquered me. But when she said no, I was unforgivably proud, resentful, and bloody childish. But now, well now I can see it all so clearly. I spoiled everything, Mother.’

Mrs Thornton let her eyes scan his jaded visage. ‘How?’

John rubbed his brow unhurriedly as he thought. ‘For so long, I have been angry with her; frustrated that she would not want me and refused my love and devotion. However, last night it all made sense – why should she want me? I never once told her how I felt. I never showed her favour or affection, I never intimated that I cared for her, I never applied to court her. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, I proposed, or tried to at least. How must that have looked?’

‘Poppycock!’ Mrs Thornton clipped tetchily. ‘She should have been honoured. I do not hold sway with all this tosh about girls demanding to be flattered and persuaded with flowers and poems. It is nonsensical and self-indulgent. A man need not reveal himself so indecently and should offer for a woman only _if_ and _when_ the time is right and in the manner he sees fit, not when and how it befits her.’

But again, her words of censure fell on deaf ears.

‘She must have been stunned,’ he continued, staring off into the distance. ‘She must have been overwhelmed. I probably paralysed the poor darling with panic. I remember it so vividly, she looked like a rabbit caught in a poacher’s trap, unable to escape. No wonder she thought I only offered because of the riot…I had never given her reason to believe otherwise. Then she was tired, she was out of sorts. I _should_ have seen it. How could I claim to care for her when I did not even notice that she needed me to wait and be a pillar of support, a shoulder to cry on? She needed time to recover, not just from her head wound, but from the ordeal of the day, and the knowledge that both her mother and her friend were dying. She needed my compassion and friendship, but instead, she got my impetuosity and impertinence,’ he jeered, cursing himself.

‘I was so desperate to ask her, so obsessed with a desire to know that she would be mine, that I did not even think. I wanted to hold her, to have her. She was fatigued, her head hurt, I could see it in her pallid face, her glazed eyes. I…I was like a vulture, a self-seeking parasite, only attentive to my own selfish needs and wants.’

Even although Mrs Thornton could not condone her son’s merciless self-loathing, she could not help but inwardly agree with some of his assessment, his appraisal of his own irrationalities. It was true that he should have waited and not gone to Miss Hale quite so soon after they had both been interwoven in such an indelicate incident. In reality, Mrs Thornton had so far held this opinion in the belief that if John had delayed, then she may have been able to dissuade him from his misguided feelings, but now, she could appreciate that from Miss Hale’s perspective, his unanticipated declaration must have appeared rash and artificial, leading her to be suspicious of the sincerity of his intentions. She was not sorry that Miss Hale was not to be his wife, but perhaps her refusal of John would have been less insensitive if she had not felt harassed by his unexpected attentions and humiliated by the memory of what had induced them in the first place. Yes, as a rule, Mrs Thornton did not and could not fault her son, but on this isolated occasion, she conceded that his judgment had left a lot to be desired.

‘Perhaps you are right, son. But John, I am sorry to see you so disheartened, but surely you must now appreciate that your feelings for her may be strong, but they are not reciprocated and must be forgotten. You will see, your ardour will dwindle with time, trust me. Life is made up of love and loss and you will love again, maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day. Come that time, you will realise that Miss Hale was not meant for you.’

Mrs Thornton had spoken cautiously, for fear of further offending her son, but he did not seem to stir at her sermon, quietly drinking it in and pondering each statement in its turn.

After what seemed like an age, the thin line of his mouth parted. ‘Mother, Miss Hale and I were made to be together, I just know it. I just know that God crafted us with each other in mind. We are two halves of the same soul. She even alluded last night to the idea that things may have been different if I had behaved more gallantly, suggesting that her answer may have been more favourable. But now, it is of no use, for I have ruined it with my brashness and my temper. I love her and nobody will ever love her like I do, but I know it now, I do not deserve her and never will.’

This was too much for the matriarch to tolerate and she felt her maternal feathers ruffle with an instinctive need to protect her baby chick. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The very idea of the great John Thornton being reduced to a sentimental sap by a mere slip of a thing, a lass who had no right to such airs and graces was almost immoral in its absurdity.

John rose again and prowled around the room. He wandered over to his bookshelf and began to distractedly search it, perusing his collection, as he continued to speak softly: ‘I cannot describe it. It is as if Margaret runs through my veins just as naturally as blood. She is the air in my lungs, the spring in my step, the helm of my mind, the rudder of my conscience. It is like that book that you were keen on, Mother. What is it called? The one with the man who had a wife, and then he tries to marry the governess?’

She deliberated. ‘Jane Eyre?’

‘Aye,’ he said, clicking his fingers in agreement.

‘You have read it?’ she queried in disbelief.

‘Yes,’ he conceded self-consciously. ‘I have read a lot recently. I have…I have been trying to make sense of my feelings,’ he confessed, his face flushed with embarrassment, as he picked at the cuff of his shirtsleeve sheepishly. ‘I have been trying to make sense of what love is and how a man should act when he falls for a woman…how he should conduct himself when he likes a lady. I hoped it would help me to understand her better, to know what she would expect, what would make her happy. And I thought…I hoped it might teach me how to be more romantic, to learn how to woo her. I – I felt inept and was seeking instruction.’

Mrs Thornton could not help but smile to herself. Her John, her lovely John! Despite his strength and stature, he was still her vulnerable boy at heart, one who faithfully trusted that everything worth knowing could be learnt from a book.

‘But it matters not,’ he went on, ‘for all these men, Rochester, Darcy, Wentworth, they all made a hash of things! And do not even get me started on Heathcliff. But one thing stuck out to me, it was what Rochester said to Jane. Then, John placed a hand over his heart and absently strummed at it, as he recited: _“I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.”’_

Mrs Thornton listened attentively to her son’s oration, allowing his rich burr to reverberate around the room, as it radiated with the profound truth of every syllable of fervour that derived from the inspired prose.

‘That is exactly how she makes me feel,’ he admitted dolefully, slumping against his books.

Mrs Thornton rose from her seat and she too began to skulk around the chamber. She was so immersed in a whirlwind of disordered sentiments, that she hardly registered the items that lay peppered across the bed. It was only as the dazzling winter daylight seeped through the cracks in the curtains that a ray of sunlight caught an edge of metal, causing it to glint and cast a flickering sparkle across the wall. Mrs Thornton’s attention was filched, and she gazed down at the collection of bits and pieces resting on the creased bedsheets. Pursing her lips, she inspected them, gingerly picking one up and turning it in her hand.

_Oh, my Lord! – was it?_

‘What are these?’ she asked warily.

At first, John glanced in her direction with vague listlessness, but on seeing the source of her interest, he leapt into life and raced towards her. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘Give ‘em back! They’re hers!’

Mrs Thornton recoiled as John snatched the contents out of her grasp and held it firmly against his masculine breast. But what disturbed her the most, was what he had said: “ _hers_ ,” not “ _his_ ,” but “ _hers_.”

‘John,’ she whispered. ‘John, did you buy her a ring?’

John lowered his eyes to the ground and nodded gently.

‘Good grief! When?’ she breathed.

He shuffled fretfully. ‘The day after the dinner party.’

Mrs Thornton halted. After the dinner party? But how could he have? It was inconceivable that John Thornton, the most eligible bachelor in town, could have purchased an engagement ring in Milton without all the gossiping tongues wagging. Besides, she had assumed that he had only decided to propose on the day of the riot, after Miss Hale had forced his hand with her careless foolhardiness. Was it possible that he had been planning this for longer than his mother had dared to realise or accept?

‘I do not understand.’

John scuffed his feet against the rug sullenly, still unable to look at her. ‘I…I went away that day.’

Her eyes widened with recognition. ‘Yes! Yes, I know you did, so, you left town?’ she asked with astonishment. ‘Heavens, John! Where did you go?’

He cleared his throat. ‘To Helstone,’ he mumbled under his breath.

She wrinkled her nose. Why did that place sound familiar? Then, it hit her, and she wheezed with the knowledge of what he was imparting. ‘Helstone?!’ she blurted out. ‘What? The village she lived in? John George Thornton, are you telling me that you disappeared to the south of England and came back all in a day and I knew nothing of it?’

John winced as she used his full name, a habit only employed when he was in the gravest of trouble. ‘Yes,’ he muttered guiltily.

‘Saints preserve us!’ she sighed, holding onto her stomach, attempting to still the squall within.

‘I was confused,’ he professed with reluctance. ‘In the few months since she had arrived in Milton, I had felt my life dissolve into chaos, not just because of the strike, but with the way she made me feel, the arcane effect she had on me. I knew at the dinner party that…that I had strong feelings for her. I had suspected it before then, but that night, when she had looked so beautiful, and I saw her, and we shook hands for the first time, I hardly knew myself anymore, it was like she had bewitched me. Then, at the table, when she had been so compassionate, so valiant in the face of the self-interest and ruthlessness that surrounded her, I knew for certain, right there and then, that I loved her. I knew that I adored her, and I knew that I needed her saving grace, her guiding light in my life,’ he described wistfully.

‘When I saw that rogue Armitage talking to her, I could not stand it. You should have seen the lustful way he regarded her ─ the swine! I felt the spawn of jealousy uncoil and slither around inside me like a snake. I have never felt jealousy like that before, it was all-consuming and ugly. I felt a strange mixture of protectiveness and covetousness. I must admit, I was on the verge of acting possessively, of which I am most penitent, for even if she were my fiancé or wife, then she would not be mine to possess. Protect, yes, but never possess,' he exhaled.

'Then that night…I dreamt of her. I dreamt…it does not matter. But when I woke up, I knew I needed to get away and clear my head. There was no mill to run, so I got up before the lark and headed for the station. To be honest, I did not even decide to go to Helstone, for I believe if I had, the rational side of my brain would have talked me out of it, dissuaded me from such futility. But before I knew what was happening, I was heading south and I had obtained a ticket that would take me to where she had been born, where she had grown to become the woman I now loved. It was everything I had imagined and more. It was a charming corner of paradise, full of colour and sunshine. No wonder she is so virtuous, for she is an angel who came to us from Heaven on Earth. and no wonder she hates it here, she must miss it dreadfully, I know I would.’

His mother reached out and gently retrieved the coveted ornament from his possessive clutch. ‘And the ring?’

He reddened again with embarrassment; the tips of his ears tinted like a ripe tomato.

‘When I was coming back, I had to stop off in a town in the vicinity, I cannot recall its name. I was awaiting the coach and then…and then I saw it. I was waiting on a trivial street, watching the farmers plod by with their horse and carts, and there was a small jeweller’s establishment, tiny really, an inconsequential holding. But as I lingered, something captured my curiosity and then, there it was,’ he laughed, shaking his head. ‘It was just sitting there in the window, winking at me. I do not remember exactly what transpired, but I went in and I just knew that it was the very ring for her, and so, I took it.’

Mrs Thornton studied the ring in her hand. It was lovely. It was white gold with a constellation of dainty pearls and diamonds, each adorning a delicate border that highlighted a solitary sapphire that was crowned in the centre. The stones gleamed and glinted brilliantly in the light, but despite the cluster of regal elegance, the band was still discreet in its modesty. She understood that a girl like Fanny would probably turn her nose up at it, complaining that the jewels did not meet her ostentatious requirements for gaudy grandeur, but for John, it reflected his humble character. It was magnificently beautiful, yet it was by no means pretentious, which Mrs Thornton had to admit, was much like the woman he revered and wished to wed.

Still, it was a shock to her to discover that he had kept such a bauble for so long without her knowledge. It alerted an intuitive apprehension that she did perhaps not know her son as well as she had always assumed she did.

‘But John, you had not even asked her. What will you do with it now?’

John shrugged. ‘It does not matter. It is hers and always will be. Mother, when I looked at that ring, I realised something significant. I understood it too when I saw her lying before me on the ground, limp and lifeless after she had been injured, and I thought I had lost her. I understood it when I turned on my heels and stormed out of her father’s study, after she denied my feelings for her. And as God as my witness, I knew it last night, even when I shouted at her and fled, I realised that there never was and never will be any other woman in this whole wretched world for me but Margaret Hale.’

His Mother stretched forward and patted his arm.

‘So, it matters not that she said no,’ he explained. ‘For that ring is hers and nobody else’s. Do you not see, Mother, it is her or no one.’

Mrs Thornton sat down again on his bed to explore the other belongings. There were two more possessions consisting of a pair of gloves and a single yellow rose that had been pressed into a page. The gloves were of white silk and were slim and fine, making it easy for her to guess who the rightful owner was. ‘Miss Hale’s?’ she deduced.

‘Hmm? Yes, she left them here on the day of the riot. I took them with me when I went to Crampton the next day, but in the turmoil, I forgot to return them. I have kept them ever since. I have not been able to find the right time to give them back and what is more, I do not want to. It is unseemly I know, but they may be the only thing of hers that I can claim, the only essence of her that will remain in this house. I hold them occasionally, late at night, in here, in my study, in my office. And sometimes, just sometimes, I carry them in my breast pocket, so I can have something of hers close to my heart.’

She nodded. In truth, if this had been any other discussion on any other day, Mrs Thornton would have been insulted by the obscene confessions that her son was making with a shameful lack of apology or appreciation for his improper conduct. But by now, his revelations had overwhelmed her to such an extent, that she was dumbfounded, unable to muster the strength required to challenge or chastise him for his wrongdoing.

‘And the flower?’ she said, picking it up and reviewing the preserved bud with its canary-yellow petals.

‘Oh, that is from Helstone,’ he explained. ‘I heard her talk about them. I presumed I would not see any, as it is winter after all, and the frost should have withered them all. Besides, it seemed that they had all been cut away, but miraculously, I found one, just one, hidden away in the hedgerow…I had to look hard. I have never been one for flowers, you know that, but as soon as I saw it, I was drawn to it. It reminded me of her,’ he chuckled.

‘It smelt like her, all sunny and sweet, and its vibrancy warmed my weary spirit, just like she does. I picked it and took it home, then, on the way back to Milton, I tried to write down how I felt, so I could figure out how to tell her of my feelings, but for the life of me, I could not find words enough to adequately express my affection. So instead, I pressed the rose into the pages and planned to give it to her when the time was right.’ 

Mrs Thornton had attended quietly to his tale, but all of a sudden, a part of his account came flooding back to her and she turned to him. ‘John, did you say that you shouted at her?’

John buried his face in his hands and groaned. ‘Aye, I did.’

‘Why? What happened?’

John let out a lengthy and shuddering sigh. ‘I was a monster,’ he claimed, letting his hands fall to his side in defeat. ‘I…we seemed to be getting on so well. I admit that I was going to ask her if there was a chance that we could ─ I do not know, start again? A chance that we could be friends, to perhaps court if and when she felt ready. But then I saw the letter and the red mist descended. I was so consumed by envy and disillusionment that I lashed out.’

‘John!’ she gasped. ‘What did you say?’

He bit his bottom lip, he nipped it so hard that he could taste blood. ‘Heinous lies! I told her that she meant nothing to me, that I had only proposed because I felt I had to and that I was relieved that she said no. I told her that I had never loved her and never would.’

Mrs Thornton soughed. ‘Oh John!’

‘Precisely! I could see in her darling face that she was scared, that she was mystified, because she did not know I had seen the letter. She just stood there like a china doll, unable to defend herself. I half expected Margaret to rally and be her usual brave self, opposing and condemning my abominable tantrum, but no, she just froze and stood by in silence while I abused her so shamefully. I could not stop myself; it was like all the agony of my heart was spilling out and I was helpless to hold it back,’ he explained mournfully.

‘I wanted to go back, God knows I wanted to go back and grovel at her feet, to beg for her forgiveness, but the coward in me kept running. So, Mother, that is why I am here today. What is the point? Nothing matters anymore. There is no purpose in me working if it is not to build and secure a life for her and the family we might have had together. I cannot face the day knowing that I have now lost her forever. Before last night, I had a glimmer of hope, the faintest flicker of a prospect that gave me the drive to get through each day. Because those romantic novels did teach me one thing; they showed me that for most of those men, with a little patience and persistence, they were able to realise the error of their ways and could strive to win the heroine’s heart, but alas, it seems my life is no fairy tale,’ he scoffed.

‘I know now that we will never be husband and wife and I shall never earn her love. It is not so much about the other man. No, it is that Miss Hale, Margaret, I can see that she could never desire me. She champions qualities that I do not possess: Integrity, honour, decency, empathy─’

‘John! You are all of those things and more!’ she objected. ‘You are a fair Master and a just Magistrate, for Heaven’s sake!’

‘So what? Do you really think she cares about such worldly concerns? No, in her eyes I am a devil. Do you really think that she considers me honourable?’ he sneered. ‘The man who was beating a powerless fellow who was not my equal the first time she met me? The man who barked at children? The man who let his employees starve while he threw a lavish dinner party? The man who set soldiers on an imploring crowd comprising of his own impoverished workforce? In her eyes I am no more than a brute, a bully, an immoral scoundrel that claims to care for her and then howls at her like some sort of beast. No, Mother, it is over!’ he concluded, skulking towards the window.

Gazing out at his empire, he quietly added: ‘I _will_ still love her; I cannot help myself. I will defy her and love her with a fidelity and loyalty that cannot be matched, not in fiction nor in fact, but there is now no doubt that she will _not_ have me.’

Mrs Thornton slowly walked over to where her son stood and joined him. Together they observed the comings and goings of the bustling mill below them. She marvelled at how each and every one of those workers would give anything to switch places with the Master of Marlborough Mills, yet today, for once, she felt they had the better lot in life, for what man would want the burden of such grief over a woman?

‘What will you do now?’ she enquired.

John straightened up and massaged the back of his neck, which ached from staring at the ceiling for too long. ‘I will get washed and dressed, then I shall go out.’

‘To the mill?’

‘Aye, I shall speak to Williams and see where things are at. But before I settle down to work, I must go out, there is something I _need_ to do.’

‘What do you need to do that is so urgent that it cannot wait?’ she griped.

‘Just… _something_ ,’ he replied cryptically.

As John commenced to pick up his dispersed clothes from the night before, that still lay scattered across the floor, he turned to her once more. ‘Mother, I want you to do something for me. Will…will you help her?’ he implored.

Mrs Thornton blinked. ‘What can you possibly mean?’

‘She is alone, Mother, she is…she is so strong.’ he said with a small smile. ‘Mrs Hale is unwell, she is dying, there is no denying it. Margaret will soon lose her mother and I cannot bear the idea of her struggling under the burden of her obligations and sorrow without help. If she will not let me look after her, then you must try, for I will not have her suffer, especially not alone.’

‘John, I don’t know─’

‘Please! Please Mother, for me. If I cannot be her husband, then I must at least try to be her friend.’

After a pause she gave in. ‘Very well. If it will give you some peace. But I do it for you, mind, not her.’

As Mrs Thornton moved towards the door, she halted and hesitantly whispered: ‘John, I know you are devastated, but believe me, time will heal your heart. I too know what it is like to lose somebody you love very much.’

Without looking up, he acknowledged her counsel. ‘I know you do.’

Striding back to his side, she tenderly took his face in her hands and let her thumbs skim his cheeks. Gazing into his soulful eyes, she told him:

_‘When the night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long, And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong, Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snows, Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, in the spring, becomes the rose.’_

John looked back at her and sighed. ‘But, Mother, what if I am doomed to live in perpetual winter? What if she is my only hope of happiness? I do not know if I can survive without her.’

She smiled and placed a kiss upon his bent forehead. ‘Then, my boy, I will do my best to warm your soul with my love. You may not want it as much as hers, but at least it is steadfast. Now, enough John, enough. You have mourned, but now it is time to get up, dust yourself off and get on. The mill needs you; Milton needs you; I need you. Let her go, John. Like a puff of smoke, let her go.’

Then with that, she vacated the room, and he was left alone. Standing still, John let his eyes fall upon the three treasured trinkets that lay upon his bed, each a testimony to his unrequited love and the woman who would forever dwell in his heart. Caressing the ring that lay in his palm, little did he know that in thirty-six hours, the circle in his hand would have found a permanent home on a slender finger, and, in eleven days, John Thornton would be a married man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know! Yuck! What an appalling chapter and it’s way too long! But, as I said, it just wasn’t happening and I decided to just get it posted.
> 
> Also, I know it’s very controversial when John realises he loves Margaret. Was it before the dinner party? At the dinner party? When she was hit with the stone? We will probably never know for sure. But because in my version, he doesn’t get his all-important Helstone trip, I decided to bring it forward and change it up a bit. I hope you enjoyed it all the same.


	16. THAT WOMAN!

CHAPTER 16:

THAT WOMAN!

It was ten o’clock in the morning and outside a house on a corner of a narrow Crampton road, the manufacturing town of Milton was pulsating with activity, everybody toing and froing, briskly going about their lives.

But for one solitary young lady, she was cloistered in her bedroom, dreading the prospect of leaving the sanctum of her chamber and greeting the grim reality of this new day. Clutching the pitiful remnants of a tattered bouquet of roses, each bud withering with its torn petals and naked stems, she fervently prayed that…well, she did not really know what she was praying for anymore.

Margaret sat on the edge of her bed, still adorned in the white, glittering gown she had been wearing the night before, although now, its purity was blemished with dewdrops of her weeping blood from her pricked fingers. Her pinned hair had come loose, cascading in a mass of tangled tresses, her cheeks were stained with stale tears, and her body was numb, apart from her hands, which trembled in time to the solemn beat of her aching heart. She felt like Miss Havisham, garlanded as a jilted bride, gilded as a miserable maiden whose fate it was to never be wed, to never be wanted, eternally mourning her lover.

As she listened to the hum of the hectic thoroughfare below, with its throng of butchers, bakers, and perhaps the odd candlestick maker, she was consumed by an enigmatic envy. She begrudged them all for the easy way in which they went about their day, the confidence and conviction they retained, the certainty they laid claim to. Still, she knew it was not true, for she appreciated that each and every one of them would have their own troubles, their own strains and struggles which marred their lives. All the same, she resented the way they had the faith to get up, get dressed, and advance into the world, resilient and ready to face their fate.

_His voice._

In contrast, Margaret was like a nervous kitten, feeling terribly feeble and frightened. She despised it. It was not like her at all, all this moping around and crying over spilt milk. But for the life of her, she felt as fragile as the shrivelling flowers wreathing her lap, something once lovely, now reduced to pathetic shreds, with no beauty, no dignity, and no possible hope of blossoming again. She had hardly slept, and both her body and mind were exhausted by the weight of her muddled emotions. She tried to piece together a picture from the disarray of shattered memories from the day before, but they eluded her like flashes of lightning, each bringing clarity for the briefest of moments, before vanishing into nothing. As the reminiscences slipped through her subconscious, they caused her to doubt what had been real and what her infatuated mind had imagined or invented for its own consolation. 

What had happened?

_His face._

She was so distracted, so distraught, so disordered.

_His hate._

Margaret sensed fresh tears flowing as she drowned amidst the veracity of her distinctly destitute situation. She had come to realise that in the face of her intractability and her resolution to remain unresponsive to a certain man and the disconcerting effect he had on her; she had accidentally fallen in love.

_His tenderness._

Yes, despite her arrogance, her obstinacy, her foolish prejudice, despite all her natural instincts, Margaret was desperately in love with John Thornton.

The idea was so ridiculous that it almost made her laugh out loud. Margaret had always prided herself on being aware of her own thoughts and feelings, a shrewd judge of her own concerns and conscience. She had told herself from their very first meeting that Mr Thornton was a cold and calculating man and master alike, one who belittled and bullied those around him to get his own way and to achieve his own ends, without a care for the consequences of his careless conduct.

But oh! – how mistaken she had been.

He was _nothing_ like that. Instead of being impassive, he was passionate. Instead of devious, he was fair. Instead of cruel, he was gentle. How she had misjudged him and how deeply she had wronged him. She was devoted to a man who was everything her spirit championed, her soul adored, and her awakening heart yearned for. He was a man who was clever, empathetic, conscientious, reliable, trustworthy, selfless, and the most precious person in the whole world to her. It was strange, for they had hardly ever shared anything, certainly nothing like the bonds of blood that tethered her to her family, but somehow, they had gone through so much together and now he was the one her being craved, the one it cried out for in the lonely hours.

It was as if Margaret had been blind, but as Mr Thornton had heaved open the front door last night and the light of the bright stars and moon had flooded into the hallway, it was as if they had illuminated her vision and now she could see. It was in that split-second that the truth had hit her – she loved him!

But it was not just her foreign feelings for this man that had left Margaret breathless as she stood on the steps and watched him disappear into the void of darkness, no, it was a realisation of exactly who he was.

Where he was strong, he was also sensitive. Where he was powerful, he was also vulnerable. Where he was forceful, he was also tender. She now knew that the mien he wore, the façade of severity, solemness, and spite, it was merely a mask. Beneath that disguise of anger and aloofness, he was a man who thought and felt with a profound fervour. She had caught a fleeting flicker of it before, not once, but three times. Once was on the night of the Thornton dinner party when she had sparred with him, and he had stared at her with heated intensity, conveying a multitude of messages that were meant just for her. The second had been on the balcony of the mill house, when she had defended him in front of the rioters. The episode had gone by in a flurry, in a flash, but his piercing gaze could not be misconstrued as he had grappled with her, imploring her to go indoors. He had been scared, and he had been afraid not for himself, or his property, but for her alone. The third came on the day he had proposed, and Margaret had attempted with every ounce of her being to remain unsympathetic to his pleas and protests. However, amid the quarrel, she had received a glimpse of the magnificent soul beneath the veil of bitterness. His eyes had been glassy, his face contorted by anguish, and even although she tried to ignore it, her heart had thumped against her chest at the knowledge of his genuine reverence for her.

Then, last night, she had witnessed it again. It was the most inexplicable thing, and it made no sense to her. His visit the evening before had been a complete shambles. At first, he had seemed almost adorable in his incompetence. He had been shy, tense, and clumsy, nearly striking her in the face with his present of a posy. That in itself had been surprising, for Margaret had never imagined Mr Thornton gifting flowers, especially to her, not after the way she had treated him. Yet, when he had handed them to her, Margaret’s heart had fluttered, for she knew that despite her lack of feminine fancies for chivalry, she felt almost giddy by his show of affection, realising that it was the most natural thing in the world for him to give her flowers, and more to the point, she wanted him to. The way he had looked at her…it still made her blush and every nerve in her body tingle from the memory of his fervid gaze resting on her, melting into her skin.

Throughout the rest of the visit, his mood had seemed to change, fluctuating between civility and confrontation. They had bickered about all manner of issues, from Nicholas Higgins, Boucher, Henry Lennox, Anne Latimer, and the concept of a gentleman worth admiring. But his opinions had appeared different. No longer were they full of disregard or disinterest, but in fact, quite the opposite. It was almost as if he felt too much and was struggling to contain his emotions or to keep himself in check. Margaret could not be sure, but he had given the impression of being anxious about her welfare when she had spoken about her involvement with the Boucher family, and then, he had seemed almost jealous when she had mentioned Henry. But now, Margaret was utterly confounded, for Mr Thornton had told her in no uncertain terms that he did not care for her, and why would he say such a merciless thing if it were fallacious?

She had been right in her assumptions all along. She meant nothing to him.

Margaret sighed and slowly stood. It would take every scrap of strength she had, but she would overcome this, she would conquer the pain that seemed to sear her very soul, and more than that, she would survive, and she would defy him. She would not let Mr Thornton’s animosity stop her from loving him and respecting him, and as much as seeing him would hurt, she knew it could not be avoided, and what’s more, she could not bear to be deprived of him altogether. So, as always, Margaret prepared to weather the storm with poise. It would not do to stay cooped up like a prisoner in her own home. She scolded herself for sobbing over a man who was likely going about his day as if nothing had happened, his thoughts never once straying to her.

After gracelessly changing her clothes without assistance, Margaret made her way quietly towards the downstairs library, taking care not to alert anybody in the house to her presence. She had decided that she would distract herself by finishing her letter to Fred, for right now, it was imperative that she make her family her priority. No matter what heartache she might be suffering alone, her responsibility was to do all she could to reunite her parents with their prodigal son. Spying the incomplete missive sitting on a small table beside the study door, Margaret picked it up and settled herself at her father’s desk.

_My Dearest One,_

_I cannot tell you how much my leaden heart misses you and how I long to see your face, which I am sure is quite unapologetically handsome these days. How I yearn to hold your hands in mine and embrace you as we once did._

_Fred, I cannot express how much I miss you. It has been too long since we were together in Helstone, back when we were both young and life was innocent. I trust that you are well, and I continue to pray for you and ask that God grants you a life filled with purpose, friendship, and of course, peace._

_Fred, dearest, I do not know if you received my last letter which I sent eight weeks ago, but – oh Fred! – it is too awful and I cannot bear to say it, but I must. Fred, our mother is ill and she is dying. Our doctor does not believe she will live much longer than these few months, even weeks. Our poor father is unaware of her condition, either that, or he refuses to accept it. But Fred, she is asking for you, she is begging for you to come home. I know it is not safe and I dread to think of you returning to these shores, but I believe you will regret not seeing her one last time. So please, Freddie, please come if you can._

_Fred, while I am writing this letter, I feel I should tell you something. It is of a notion that I have had. You may remember me briefly mentioning a Mr Henry Lennox in my letters from London. He is Edith’s brother-in-law, and he is a very clever and capable lawyer. It occurred to me that perhaps he might be of benefit to you, to help you investigate and potentially appeal your case. Before you ask, I do trust him, I think, and I do not believe that he would betray us. For one, I consider him to be honourable, but also, with his connection to our family, it would not be in his interests to be embroiled in a scandal. I think at the very worst, he would simply decline and leave it at that. But oh Fred! Just imagine if you could be free to come home, to live in England. I shall not write to Henry Lennox and discuss your case without your approval, but brother, do please think on it, for your reputation and your happiness mean more to me than you know, and I believe our dear parents would give anything to see you reprieved and free._

_I must admit that I write to you with a heavy heart. My life here has been hard and even although I do not like to carp, I feel bitterly for the simple pleasures I left behind in the south. In this sad town, my one consolation is holding fast to my cherished memories of the blissful days we spent together in Helstone. Nevertheless, I am slowly growing accustomed to life in Milton and I have met many kind-hearted people who I am proud to call my friends. ~~There is one who has shown our family unwavering consideration, one who I have come to admire and esteem most ardently, and one who I very much hope you can one day meet.~~_

_I have not heard from you in so long, that I have begun to worry. I am so alone. Oh, to have you here, by my side, where you belong, with your family. Think on what I said about returning to us, please. And think about Henry and asking him for help. Promise me that you shall at least consider it._

_Please come soon, for I need you. Your coming will change everything._

_With all my love,_

_Your Margaret_

After Margaret finished her dispatch, she laid down her pen, closed her eyes, leaned back, and took a deep breath. She knew that regardless of her misery, she still had a duty to perform. She had a family who needed her: an ailing mother, an inept father, and a displaced brother, all wilting branches of her family tree, all kin who relied on her courage and resilience. Yes, in spite of her desolation, she would devote herself to serving her family, perhaps in that, she would find solace from the wounds that disfigured her heart. She would send the letter today and only hoped it would reach Fred in time, and that the part she had crossed out was now too blotted for him to read, exposing her innermost longings.

As she dreamily visualised her correspondence sailing across the sea bound for Spain, Margaret was roused from her reflections by a gentle tapping on her arm. Her eyelids flickered open and she twisted to see Dixon, the stout woman watching her with curiosity.

‘Are you well, Miss?’ she inquired.

Margaret promptly sat up straight and busied herself with shuffling and stacking bits of stray paper, her hand distractedly fingering the wilful curls that drooped over her temple. ‘Yes Dixon, I am quite well,’ she retorted tetchily. ‘What is it?’

‘I was wondering if you were going into town today, Miss? It is just, well, I would go myself, but the Mistress is not in a good way. She did not have a good sleep and woke up awfully skittish. She has not been herself the past few days, you know, she has been terribly agitated. The Mrs is resting now, sitting rearranging a deck of cards of all things, but I do not want to leave her to attend to errands. I wonder Miss Margaret; would you be able to venture into town for me?’ she requested.

Margaret’s eyes went wide, and she gawped back at Dixon as if she were a doe snared by a huntsman. ‘Into town?’ she repeated faint-heartedly. ‘What, _today_?’ she gulped.

_What if…? What if I see him?_

Dixon tilted her head. ‘Yes, why? Is it a bother?’ she queried with a quirked eyebrow. She was dumbstricken by the girl’s odd behaviour, for Miss Margaret was always more than happy to oblige with household tasks, so why was she so fidgety today?

Margaret stood abruptly, causing her chair to scrape across the floor with a grating screech. Her bottom lip quivered, but still, she nodded her head. ‘Yes Dixon, of course, I shall go at once,’ she agreed, for after all, if she were to go out, then she might as well get it over and done with. ‘Let me fetch my coat and hat and I shall leave presently,’ she decided before she had the chance to change her mind.

As Margaret swooped out of the study, Dixon’s scrutiny followed her, nosey as to the girl’s uncharacteristically apprehensive demeanour. Really! – young ladies these days were a law unto themselves. Shrugging her shoulders, the servant fondly muttered: ‘That woman!’

* * *

John quitted the macabre stone building, determined to dissociate himself from it as soon as he could. His business there had not been pleasant and his experience even less congenial. However, despite the foulness of the subject matter, it was a task that had needed undertaking and he was not sorry for having fulfilled it. Indeed, all three of his visits this morning had been personally awkward and laborious, ones which required him to swallow his pride and replace it with principle. Nevertheless, even with their draining drawbacks, each meeting had been equally fruitful in achieving his desired results.

Still, the memory of the distasteful encounter he had just undergone and the vile threats that had been discharged by both him and another weighed heavily on his already fraught mind. He hoped the separation of a little time and distance might allow their taunting abuse to fade away. Hastening his step, he marched onwards towards the epicentre of town and back to the mill, ready to resume his mounting responsibilities there. He told himself that he had been a fool to attend to these concerns today given the fact that he was intolerably behind with commercial affairs, primarily given the increasingly precarious position of the mill’s finances. Nonetheless, no amount of censure could dissuade him from the importance of his obligations, for they were all for _her_. John had decided that if he could not convince her of the integrity of his character with mere words, then he could damn well show her with his actions. She may think him a villain, but he would do everything in his power to persuade her, to prove to her that he was a man who she could count on to do the right thing.

But wait… _‘I imagine that there would be something undeniable between them. A spark maybe. I…I can well imagine that he would evoke a passion in her that no other man ever could…perhaps he was not mistaken.’_ What had that meant?

As he veered the bend onto the Highstreet, John was at once met by a harsh gust of wind, which nipped at his skin and chilled his very bones. It was late February, and the air was still frosty as ice laced the footpaths and railings, whilst sprightly specks of snow floated down from a salt-and-pepper shaded sky. As he continued on his way, he considered what this new year would bring forth for him. With an embittered scowl, he cussed the future. It was almost spring, a period of rebirth, revival, and the restoration of hope in all that was impending. But for John Thornton, there would be no promise of springtide to look forward to, no season of fertility or growth, just an endless winter of barren discontent.

Perhaps if while these pessimistic thoughts were clouding John’s judgment, if he had only known that by the close of 1851, he would be both a husband to a beloved wife and father to a beautiful daughter, then his gloomy glare may have been transformed into a grin. But sadly, for John, he was not yet privy to this prophecy.

It was as he was trudging past the bank and wrapping his coat tightly around him in protest against the squall, that John was drawn out of his bleak thoughts by the sound of his name ringing in his ears.

‘Thornton! Thornton!’

John ceased and scanned around him, only to grumble as he saw Mr Latimer and his daughter approaching. It was not that John was impolite, (most of the time), it was just that today of all days, he lacked both the leisure and inclination to be sociable.

‘Mr Latimer, Miss Latimer,’ he replied weakly, his mouth set in a thin line of annoyance at this nuisance.

The greying man wandered up to John with his daughter demurely floating behind him, her cattish eyes glinting at this chance meeting with her preferred choice of potential beau.

‘My word Thornton! You were in a world of your own. I have been calling your name for some time. I hope nothing is amiss, you certainly looked troubled, did I not say so Anne?’ he asked, rotating to his daughter for confirmation, who in turn simply dipped her dainty head.

John suppressed the urge to grunt gruffly. ‘I am simply busy, Sir, please excuse me for my discourtesy.’ Then, in no mood to discuss his own activities or state of mind, he opted to deviate the attention back onto his conversational companion, thus evading further discourse on his own nettlesome temper. ‘Well then, Mr Latimer, Miss Latimer, what are you about today?’

‘Ah well, Thornton, that is just the thing actually. I am late for a rather pressing meeting at the bank and Anne here is on her way to your house.’

John narrowed his eyes. ‘My house?’

‘Yes, yes. When your mother and sister graced us with their presence last night, they most attentively invited Anne to take tea with them this morning,’ Mr Latimer explained, hardly hiding his barbed perturbance that John, the end goal himself, had not attended the dinner the previous evening. ‘So you see, Thornton, I was wondering…would it be too unsolicitous of me to prevail upon your gallant nature and ask that you escort Anne back to Marlborough Mills? It would be doing me a great service and indeed, I am sure you two young people would much prefer it if I did not get in the way of your tête-à-tête,’ he tittered pointedly. 

John rummaged through his mind for an excuse, any excuse! It was not that he objected to the charge of escorting Miss Latimer back to the house, especially when he was already heading that way. No, it was more that he did not wish to engage in any small talk, particularly with a lady to whom he was trying to dissuade from viewing him as a possible suitor. But alas, no reason that would justifiably release him from his obligation presented itself and with a slight grimace, he nodded his head curtly. ‘Yes, of course, it would be my pleasure.’

Anne Latimer smiled, an unpleasant, weaselly smile, and wasted no time in gliding up to her escort and draping her arm rather snugly around his own. It was at that moment that John glanced up and his heart skipped a beat, crashing against his ribs, and all the air vanished from his lungs, causing his throat to clog. There, in the distance, stood a woman. She was pretty, exquisite in fact, with cloudy blue-green eyes, a freckled little nose, cherubic features, and wearing a plain brown dress and coat that he had come to consider the most royal of robes. Her russet ringlets were lazily arranged, and delicate, rebellious strands curled around her forehead and ears, their silky softness slightly silvered by the flurry of sleet that sprinkled above her, like icing dusting a cake.

This woman, who he would recognise anywhere, just remained rooted to the spot in the middle of the pavement, paying no heed to the impatient throng of people on foot that pushed and shoved around her, knocking her shoulders and jostling her about. She just gazed back at John, her eyes large, her mouth agape, and her ashen face slowly turning paler and paler, until it was almost as white as the snow that had fluttered onto her unblinking eyelashes. For a woman who usually appeared imperious in her stature, John was dispirited to see her so timid. In the seconds that followed, which felt like hours, both man and woman stood stock-still, simply staring at each other in rapt disbelief.

They were not the only ones to take note of this hypnotising trance, for Miss Latimer’s perturbed pout skimmed haughtily towards the woman. Feeling at once suspicious and subsequently possessive of her prize, she commenced to tighten her grip around John’s arm and shuffled closer to his side, leaning her body in towards his in an intimate fashion. She could not understand this foreigner, this imposter who had so clearly stolen the attention of Milton’s most eligible bachelor. She was certainly handsome enough, but she was not wealthy and lacked social prominence, so it was a mystery as to why he was so patently enamoured by her. Peeking up decorously, Miss Latimer gave the woman a smug expression, one which oozed with condemnation and conveyed a thousand jeering words, such as rivalry, derision, and control, all stabbing at the woman like a wasp’s sting.

John did not spot this unwanted and unwarranted territorial act of ownership, and instead, he observed with confusion as the other woman’s eyes darted between him, Miss Latimer and their interlinked arms, her face one of poorly concealed horror. At last, she returned her gaze to his and he began to panic as he saw her very slowly but surely start to edge away from him. 

‘Margaret,’ John breathed, lurching forward.

But his swift and sudden action seemed to break the spell and Margaret startled, spun round, and took flight in the opposite direction.

‘No-no-no!’ John called out, louder and more fervently than decorum would excuse.

What happened in the next instant, John could not explain, but before he knew it, he was gone, chasing after her. All he remembered was an overwhelming need to see her, to speak to her, to enlighten and to reassure. He had let go of Miss Latimer’s arm and sped along the busy street as fast as he could without actually running. He was so ignorant, so disinterested in everything but Margaret, that he neglected to perceive nor worry about the acquaintances he had rudely left behind in his wake, who now gaped after him in amazement and affront.

Mr Latimer was so perplexed that he failed to miss his daughter fix her spiteful glare on Miss Hale, the conniving minx who had robbed her trophy from her clutches and hiss: ‘That woman!’

John tore through the throughfares of Milton, trying frantically to reach the focus of his concern. What should have been an easy pursuit was made damned arduous by the horde of people, horses and carriages that insisted on thwarting his not so chivalrous chase. Every time he thought he was getting closer to her, more obstacles seemed to manifest, almost mocking him in his ham-handed quest. He dared not race, for fear of creating a more inappropriate scene than he already had, something that he sensed Margaret would not thank him for. Besides, even if he had wanted to run, the disobliging cluster of townsfolk would not have given him ample space to sprint. Again, he could not risk shouting out, lest he frighten her more, something he would not do for all the world. But after a while, he could take it no longer, and as he saw her get further and further away from his outstretched arm that reached urgently for her, his patience imploded.

‘Out of my way!’ he barked. ‘Move!’ he growled. ‘Let me past!’ he rumbled.

As John elbowed his way through the crowd, he was insensible to the shocked expressions, shaking heads, and howls of outrage, as passers-by gawked at the fearsome master, who seemed to have become more foul tempered than ever, now taking to stampeding through the town like an angry bull. Then, as he rounded a corner at alarming speed, John smacked straight into another person as violently as if he had smashed into a brick wall.

‘HELL!’ he roared, as he swayed backwards, rubbing at his nose and jaw, both of which throbbed from the ferocity of the impact. As he stood tall and readied to carry on with his ill-mannered tracking of a lovely lady, he was arrested yet again by the sound of his name.

‘Thornton?’ came a questioning voice. 

John looked round and came face-to-face with a familiar visage, Mr Bell. The gentleman seemed unscathed by the blow, merely dusting himself off and letting his gaze rake over John, who he eyed warily.

‘Thornton, my dear man, what ─’

‘Did you see her?’ he demanded aggressively. ‘Did you? Well? Where did she go?’ he interrogated, evidently harassed as his restless eyes hunted the landscape. His appearance was made all the more wolfish by his now hatless head and unruly hair, not to mention the river of blood that seeped from his lips as a result of a cracked tooth that had punctured his gum in the collision.

As Mr Bell witnessed a distracted John turn in circles, stretch to his full height, and frantically search the street around him, he smirked to himself. Mr Bell knew exactly to whom Mr Thornton was referring, for the astute scholar had not failed to detect the spark between John and Margaret, and he was just watching and waiting until the two stubborn lovers found their way to each other. However, as always, the wily old fox in him wanted to have some fun at the serious master’s expense.

‘ _Her_?’ he reiterated with a show of bewilderment, his eyebrows knitted together. ‘Have I seen who? Where? When?’ he probed vaguely, resting idly on his cane.

‘Marg ─ Miss Hale!’ John blurted out with frustration, before quickly reining in his speech and reddening with shame.

Mr Bell grinned at John’s slip of the tongue. ‘Oh, Miss Hale?’ he recited. ‘Ah, yes I did, Thornton, I did. She went that way,’ he said, pointing towards Crampton. ‘I must say, she was hurrying away at some speed. She looked quite alarmed, poor girl. I think she must have seen a ghost,’ he sniggered comically. Then deciding to push John just a little further, he added with a prickly edge to his tone: ‘Either that or a fiend.’

John’s eyes sharpened and flared with a blistering torment. Mr Bell watched as the mill owner’s previously tense body sagged in weariness. Glowering at the cobbles, John snarled: ‘Yes, a fiend indeed.’

Without a word of farewell, John skulked away, like an animal staggering off after being defeated in battle. As Mr Bell observed John slink into the swarm of pedestrians, he chuckled to himself. Ah – young love! Poor Thornton! In all his years, Mr Bell had never seen a man so wholly besotted. If only dear Margaret knew the agony she could produce in a masculine breast. Shaking his head humorously, he tutted: ‘That woman!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, the next one should be out soon. We are getting there, not too long to go now before their resolution. And poor Mrs Hale, it seems she found those gloves years ago, but I swear, she will have her chat with her daughter soon enough. Some of you may have noticed that this chapter has two historical inaccuracies…I wonder who will have spotted them.


	17. THE VERY BEST OF MEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like this chapter and the last one. I didn’t hear much about the last one, even although I thought people would have a lot to say about John stampeding through the streets of Milton like a buffoon. But never mind, as long as you enjoyed it. I hope everyone is keeping well and do take care. Also, this chapter mentions a character that you may have forgotten and might need to nip back to Chapter 11: Three Act Drama: Act 3 to remind yourself of.

CHAPTER 17:

THE VERY BEST OF MEN

Margaret could hardly recall making her way back to Crampton. All she could remember was seeing _him_.

Him, standing there, with her on his arm. They had looked so perfect together, as if it were written in the stars, Miss Latimer glowing with the knowledge that she had secured the affections of the most wonderful man alive. It was wicked, Margaret knew, but she could not bear seeing him so happy, so content with another. Then, by some cruel hand of fate, he had looked directly at her, his eyes penetrating the armour of her soul, the breastplate of her heart. She could not stand to have him look at her, not if he were to gaze upon her with contempt, scorn, pity, or worst of all, indifference.

Margaret had been lost in a trance, compelled by the way he beguiled her and lured her to him, as if she were ensnared in some indiscernible trap. But then, he had uttered her name and her courage had snapped like a twig underfoot, for she could not endure engaging in conversation with him, not now, not there, not with people watching, and absolutely not after all that had passed between them. So, Margaret had acted instinctively, and without a second thought, she had turned on her heels and fled. She had flown back home as fast as she could and never looked back, not once. Her journey had been lost in a frenzied haze as her mind spun, her heart pounded, and her eyes wept, all grappling amidst a muddle of mortification and mourning.

Perhaps if while these dismal worries were blurring Margaret’s sense of conviction, if she had only known that by the close of 1851, that she would be both a wife to a devoted husband and mother to a darling daughter, then her sobs may have been transformed into a smile. But sadly, for Margaret, she too was not yet privy to this prophecy.

Margaret rushed up the steps of the house and opened the door with fumbling haste, dashing towards her room as if she were being pursued by a fearsome foe. However, luck was not on her side, for after just three strides, she heard her name drift up the stairs, causing her to halt with regret, foiled in her escape.

‘Margaret!’ Mr Hale called jovially. ‘Margaret, dear, is that you?’

Margaret paused on the staircase and steadied herself, breathing heavily and scrubbing at her damp cheeks. ‘Yes, Papa,’ she replied at last, hoping he did not notice the quivering in her voice.

Her father stepped out of his study and regarded her with a cheerful countenance, his deficiency of discernment rendering him insensible to her suffering. ‘I have some wonderful news, my pet. I am just sorry you were not home to hear it yourself,’ he opened with enthusiasm. ‘Higgins was here, not five minutes ago. He said that he had a most unexpected visitor this morning, you will never guess who.’

Margaret could hardly think, her head a daze of waltzing thoughts, all tripping over each other gracelessly. Drooping her head, she shook it lamely and studied a frayed spot on the carpet, resenting the inanimate item’s lack of concern to all the plights that belonged to the wearisome feet that trudged across its threads.

‘Why John, of course, Mr Thornton!’ her father beamed, peering at her from over the rim of his narrow spectacles.

Margaret quailed in astonishment, her hand absently flying to her stomach to calm the queasiness within. ‘Mr Thornton?’ she repeated, her pitch no more than a pathetic whisper.

‘Yes, it would seem so,’ Mr Hale confirmed. ‘He called on Higgins this morning and offered him work at Marlborough Mills, can you believe it?’

‘Yes, I can,’ Margaret answered confidently, her spirit riling independently in vindication of the man she championed. 

‘Mr Thornton is a man of his word. If he promised that Nicholas would have work, then he would not break that oath. No matter…’ She was going to say that it did not matter what he thought or felt about her, but her nerve failed, for it would not do to confide her heartache to her father.

‘Quite, quite,’ Mr Hale agreed amenably. ‘And there is more, he has made provisions for the Boucher children, pledging that he will pay a weekly sum towards their care. Higgins was against it at first, being a proud chap and all, but Mr Thornton would not stand down apparently. He was as stubborn as ever it seems. He said that Boucher was his worker and that he feels responsible for the poor man’s untimely demise that resulted in the children’s current sorry state. So, he insisted, principled fellow that he is.’

Margaret bit her lip, battling desperately not to let her emotions give way. ‘He is the noblest of men,’ she said softly, her throat choked by a restrained need to cry.

Mr Hale was about to answer, no doubt intending to continue praising his favourite pupil, but his sermon of acclaim was interrupted by Dixon, who appeared like an apparition from the upper floor. ‘Miss,’ she initiated snippily. ‘The Mistress says she wants to see you – at once,’ she instructed, before plodding towards the kitchen with an armful of sullied linens.

However, before Margaret could acquiesce, there was a loud knock on the front door. Keen to divert herself and evade her father’s applause of the man who her heart loved without return, Margaret hurried towards it and flung it open with an indiscriminate greeting. She was met by a man, a boy really, not much older than she. He was thin and lanky, with reddish hair and ruddy, mottled skin. He blinked at her expectantly as he twisted a well-worn top hat in his hands, nervous at encountering the young lady of the house. She was not sure who she had anticipated seeing, nevertheless, it was certainly not this gangly lad.

‘Mr Whitehall,’ she acknowledged rather vaguely, realising that it was her neighbour from further down the street.

‘Miss Hale,’ he said, bowing his head and stammering slightly, anxious to be addressing the lovely woman who he had come to be rather smitten with. It did not help the unassuming fellow that even in her state of distress, Margaret stood looking at him regally, making him believe he was soliciting the Queen herself. He was a modest gentleman in his own right, but still, being faced with her natural dignity and majesty rather left him feeling bowled over. ‘I beg your pardon Miss; I did not mean to disturb you. It is just that I have come to thank you,’ he stuttered.

Margaret raised her eyebrows, indicating that she was unaware of any need for credit or merit.

The man lumbered on the bottom step. ‘It is down to you, Miss, I think,’ he persisted shyly. ‘What with Mr Thornton…’ he added, clearly assuming she would understand his obscured reference.

Margaret jerked, jittering so hysterically that the boy thought she had seen a mouse scurry by.

‘Mr Thornton?’ she spluttered. ‘What of him?’

The young man grinned widely. ‘What of _him_?’ he questioned with disbelief. ‘Only that he is the very best of men, Miss,’ he campaigned. ‘He’s only gone and rescued us, my family and I, that is. He came to see me not an hour ago at my office across town and enquired about my circumstances. I had heard of him Miss, people say he is right fierce, but he was surprisingly gentle. He wanted to know how I was supporting my family and when I explained that I did not know how we were to manage, he saved us, just like that. He offered me work, Miss Hale. He said that he needed a warehouse manager for his mill and said the job was mine if I wanted it. You should have heard what he offered to pay me; it was almost twice what I get now,’ he puffed in astonishment, still reeling from the shock of his unexpected good fortune.

Margaret ran her fingertips along the railings in a bid to compose herself, her knees buckling beneath her skirts, threatening to cause her to collapse into a heap on the doorstep.

‘But then, we spoke about my old man and his…temper,’ Mr Whitehall said, the last word coming out in a hush as he scanned around him, anxious to see who might be eavesdropping. ‘I said that the brute was due to leave prison in a week and that we were afraid of what he might do. But Mr Thornton, well, I thought he would sneer at my family, being such a renowned gentleman, but I was greatly mistaken, he was only compassionate. He promised that we would not be troubled by the tyrant again. He said that as a Justice of the Peace, he could ensure that the crook would be severely punished if he laid another finger on us. He said that he would go to the prison himself and manage it all. He said that with any luck, we need never see my father again, that we would be safe under the assurance of his lawful protection.’

Margaret listened to this report with bated breath. She could not believe what she was hearing, yet, at the same time, it was the most natural account of a principled, moral, generous, and unfailingly decent man.

‘Oh,’ was all she could manage, the syllable barely audible as it was caught and carried away by the bitter breeze that numbed her pastel cheeks.

‘I just wanted to thank you, Miss Hale,’ Mr Whitehall clarified. ‘You see, when I asked him how he knew of our situation, he said that you had confided in him. So, if it were not for you, we would not be thanking God for our deliverance today, thank you Miss, thank you.’

Margaret hardly noticed Mr Whitehall retreat down the steps and stroll away along the busy street, his step lighter than it had been for some time. Nor did she discern the small errand boy who now stooped before her, peeking up with a scrunched face of impatience. He eyed her crossly as she stared off into the distance, her face shrouded by a lost and longing look.

‘Oye! Lass!’ he hollered at last.

Not for the first time that day, Margaret jumped as she squinted down at him.

‘I ‘ave a note for you,’ he huffed, stretching out his skinny arm and thrusting an envelope into her cold hands. Before she knew it, he too was gone. Stumbling into the house, Margaret unfolded the missive, her fingers trembling.

_Miss Hale,_

_My son has informed me that your family are currently experiencing trying circumstances in light of your mother’s declining health. Please accept my deepest sympathies and my offer of support if and when you should require it. If there is anything I may do to assist your family or bring you relief during this difficult time, then please do not hesitate to ask._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mrs Hannah Thornton_

Margaret felt herself suffocating in the midst of a series of sobs as she struggled to hold back the tears that pricked behind her eyes. The letter may have been short and brusque, but reading between the lines, she appreciated who it was really from. Despite his loathing for her, despite his desire to sever his connection to her, he was still the definition of a true gentleman. He was consistently kind, constantly gracious…the very best of men.

His remark echoed through her mind as she wobbled indoors, her legs swaying as if they were at sea: _‘I will not have you ill! I will not see you suffer in any way!’_

But wait… _’Damn it, Margaret! Don’t you see? I want to look after you!’_ What had that meant?

Margaret shook herself from her reverie and quietly closed the door, her body flagging against it in exhaustion. As she held the note close to her palpitating chest, she could feel the final fragments of her heart breaking, like shards of glass, cutting her to pieces, endangering to gradually bleed her of her valour. In that instant, she knew that she could take it no longer, something had to be done if she ever wished to survive this smothering sadness. Determining to complete one last task before dutifully going to see her mother, Margaret boldly stepped into her father’s study.

Coughing in order to declare her attendance and to muster the vital courage required to carry out her mission, Margaret announced: ‘Father…if I may, I have a suggestion.’

* * *

John patrolled back and forth across the parlour floor like a stressed animal imprisoned in a cage. His head was hung low, his hands were clasped behind his back, his brow was furrowed, and his eyes were a ferocious furnace of unrest.

Every now and again, he would pause, stand up straight, flex his fingers, and his agitated gaze would dart to the door, as he frowned with frustrated indecision. However, his hesitance would soon pass, and he would return to his skulking to and fro with renewed zeal. 

His mother, who was seated in her usual chair, watched him cautiously, afraid to interrupt his brooding mood that brewed like a storm in a teacup. She held her tongue and occasionally peeked up at him from behind the drapery of her sewing. Even although she kept her eyes trained on her needlework, she could not help but sense his frantic presence, which filled the room like a phantom, a disturbing aura that weighed heavily on the atmosphere, stifling the very air they breathed.

She wondered what had caused his disquiet, for it was only three hours ago that she had witnessed him leave the house after their earlier taxing, yet pacifying conversation. When she had observed him ready himself for the outside world, he had not appeared manic as he did now, but rather, he had been morose. He had looked tired and vanquished, with his shoulders slumped and his spirit weary, as if all the vigour had been knocked out of him. Nevertheless, he had unbolted the front door with purpose and drawing himself up to his full height, the impressive master had marched out into his mill yard, ready to fight another day. It proved that despite the thorns of grief that might pierce their wounded hearts, when push came to shove, Thorntons were as tough as old boots, taking that very briar and incorporating it into the mettle of their distinguished family name.

She had watched from her window as he had walked across the courtyard like a great stag stalking across his territory, a symbol of supremacy and strength. Nevertheless, that was only this morning, so why in such a short period of time had he transformed from an indomitable figure into one who was visibly troubled, tortured even? At long last, after his pacing had persisted for longer than any bystander should be expected to endure, Mrs Thornton put down her embroidery with a loud sigh of exasperation.

‘John!’ she grumbled. ‘What is it now? You will wear out my new rug if you are not careful,’ she admonished. 

Still, her dissatisfaction did little to deter John from his anxiety, his eyes still flitting to the door like a strange compulsion.

‘Why do you keep looking at the door?’ she asked.

At this, John stopped and seemed to think. ‘Have you seen my gloves?’ he suddenly queried.

‘Your gloves?’ she repeated, dumbfounded. ‘Which gloves?’

‘My black leather ones, the ones I always wear. I have not seen them in weeks, and in spite of hunting for them high and low, they have not turned up. I cannot think where they are,’ he explained in a faraway voice as if he were searching his memory.

Mrs Thornton puffed. Really! – John was behaving most oddly today indeed. Why on earth was he prattling on about gloves? ‘No, son,’ she retorted. ‘I have not seen them. Have you asked the servants? Perhaps one of them has moved your things.’

John scoffed. ‘No!’ he said flatly. ‘Every time they hear me coming, they scoot off and hide,’ he muttered petulantly.

His mother chortled. ‘Is it any wonder?’ she mused, unpicking a stitch. ‘You go about with a face like a wet Wednesday half the time. Even I am fearful to approach you in case you bite my head off,’ she said in a tone that was half candour, half jest.

She had hoped that her attempt at humour might rouse him, might infiltrate his trance of tension, coaxing John to either nip at her for her impertinence, or smile at her for her affable teasing. Nonetheless, her endeavours came to nought, and her comment did nothing to suspend his focus, as her son continued in his obsessive tramping, oblivious to her efforts.

‘John!’ she exclaimed, standing up and coming to rest beside him. ‘John, enough! I cannot take any more of your sulking today. What has happened now? You were…you were more settled when I saw you last, but now, well now you are like a tiger prowling about and ready to strike at any moment. What has brought it about?’ she prodded.

Finally, John froze, and he looked straight at his mother with unwavering intensity. She tried not to flinch, for his eyes betrayed a tempest of feeling.

‘I saw her,’ he said unequivocally.

His mother teetered backwards. ‘Saw her?’ she resounded, her tone faint. ‘Miss Hale? When? Where?’ she pressed. Experiencing an acute sense of alarm, she demanded to know: 'Did you go and see her?’

He shook his head sharply. ‘No. I was standing on the street and I saw her at the other end. She…’ He trailed off as he gazed towards the window, his complexion drained. He frowned as the flurry of sleet that coated the glass was whipped up by the wind, implying that the weather was turning even more frigid…an omen, no doubt.

‘She what?’ his mother pushed.

John let out a shuddering breath.

‘You should have seen her face,’ he bit out. ‘She looked…she looked horrified. She went pale. She cowered. She was scared. She…she ran off,’ he sighed, unable to believe it himself. ‘I tried to follow her, to talk to her, but it was too late, she was gone. She could not get away from me fast enough,’ John lamented, shame singeing and scarring his sinful heart.

The earlier defamations of old Mr Whitehall, the swine, rung in his ears: _‘You think you are better than me, Thornton? Aye?! I know all about you, you’re scum. I know about your father; I know about your violent temper. Think you’re better than me? You’re no more than filth, just like me!’_

Margaret, his Margret, was so gentle and he had terrified her, brute that he was. Where he was hot-headed, she was measured. Where he was incensed, she was peaceful. Where he was insensitive, she was considerate. Where he was covetous, she was charitable. Where he was selfish, she was selfless. Where he was inarticulate, she was eloquent. Where he was dogmatic, she was diplomatic. And, where he was in the wrong, she was always in the right, he the offender and she the victim of his boorishness.

Again, the taunting smears, the slanders of that pig came to him: _‘I’ve seen you Thornton. I’ve seen you with her, that tempting tottie, Missy Hale. Looking at her, wanting her…I bet you imagine what she looks like with her clothes off…don’t you? I don’t blame you; I’d think many men have. I bet you relieve yourself at the thought of bedding her forcefully, ramming her with every throbbing inch of you. Want her to be your property, do you? Nah! -You’ll never have her! You might be the great man around here, but you’re a thug, you’ll never be good enough for the likes of her. So, you better own her tight arse while you can, you dog.’_

John balked, almost doubling over as he supressed the need to vomit.

She was too good for him. She was too good for this squalid pit of degradation. Margaret was everything he was not and every day, slowly but surely, this divine creature was helping the scoundrel in him learn how to be a better man. It was just agonising to John that she would never know just how much she had influenced him. But, of course, she was not _his_ Margaret, was she? She never would be.

Mrs Thornton exhaled. ‘Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, seeing her, I mean. Perhaps it is for the best that you did not get to talk.’

John spun around and glared at her. ‘ _For the best_?’ he spat out. ‘Mother, did you not hear what I said? She was afraid of me!’ he growled, his deep burr rupturing. ‘She was so terrified by the mere sight of me that she fled…what does that tell you?’ he asked, staggering backwards in dismayed disgust, almost as if he did not have the right to be near another human being.

‘That she is just a little overwhelmed, John, that is all,’ Mrs Thornton soothed.

‘No, Mother! It tells me that she thinks me a monster…a fiend,’ he denounced, resurrecting Mr Bell’s phrase.

Once again, John cast his eyes to the door, but this time, he stirred himself into life. ‘I must go,’ he declared firmly, turning on his heels.

‘I must go see her, now, at once! I must go and explain myself, apologise, plead for her forgiveness. I must petition her with the truth. I cannot bear her fearing me. She can do what she wants with the knowledge of my feelings for her, she can laugh in my face if she so desires. But God help me, she must know that I did not mean those awful lies I spurted last night,’ he proclaimed, hastening towards the shut door. ‘She must know that I love her still and always shall.’

But his mother was having none of it. ‘No, John, no!’ she shrieked, stepping between him and his means of escape. ‘John, stop! You cannot go!’ she insisted, holding her hands up in an attempt to arrest him. ‘Just think what you are doing. She has said no, she has made herself clear. You must leave her be. If you are ever to break this spell, this curse that she has over you, then you must leave her be!’ she begged.

‘But Mother ─’

‘No John! You must forget her. Besides, you say that she has another lover. You cannot go to her if she belongs to another man. Just think John, just think if that were you. How would you feel if another man interfered with Miss Hale if you shared an understanding with her?’

John felt the cloud of envy pollute his vision, for he knew just how angry he would be if another man attempted to declare his love to Margaret, regardless of whether he himself was engaged or married to her or not. However, it was irrelevant, for all other men could go and hang! This was about him and his passion for her, and nothing – nothing ─ would stop him from going to her.

John was about to argue with his mother and make a case for his insane demand to see Margaret, but at that moment, he was hindered by the rat-a-tat-tat of a knock. Both occupants of the room startled at the sound and shuffled uneasily as a bald butler squinted around the frame, his wrinkled head like that of a mole.

‘Begging your pardon, Sir,’ he began, ‘but I have a message for you,’ he proclaimed, proffering a gloved hand.

John, being his irritable self, grabbed the piece of paper, and without glancing up, ungraciously waved the servant off. The butler was not perturbed, for after all, it was well known that Mr Thornton was a grumpy sort of fellow, made more cantankerous of late by the strike. It was not his place to question his betters, especially one as unpredictable in his temperament as the Master.

John analysed the hand and at once recognised it as belonging to his tutor, Mr Hale. Ripping open the envelope with alacrity, he scrutinised the brief note. As his mother watched him, she saw with terror as his face shifted from impassiveness, to curiosity, then darkening into a demented glower, warning that the content was not to his liking.

_Dear John,_

_Let me begin by saying how delightful it was to see you yesterday evening. We have missed your company in Crampton and it was a pleasure to enjoy your companionship once more. I am only sorry that I had to leave so prematurely, but alas, I am sure you can understand. Now then, Margaret has been her usual astute self and has suggested an initiative that will hopefully provide a solution to your current studying predicament. She has wisely pointed out that since you are so engaged at present with business affairs, that it would perhaps be more convenient for you to partake in our lessons at your own home so that you do not have to waste so much of your precious time. Therefore, I suggest that henceforth, we conduct our lessons at Marlborough House, so you need not worry about having to come to Crampton anymore. Margaret was adamant that it was the best resolution. Really, she is so clever and is always thinking of others and their wishes and requirements, I hardly know what I would do without her._

_I look forward to seeing you again soon._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Richard Hale_

As soon as he had finished the missive, John blinked rapidly. Then, as his hand began to shake, he scowled at the paper, almost as if the savagery of his stare alone could change it, or better still, obliterate it. He could feel his blood boiling and his body trembled under the force of his displeasure. With a clenched fist, he scrunched up the note into a ball of crumpled parchment, holding it against his chin in an iron grip, his knuckles turning pallor. Then, with one fail swoop, he hurled the letter into the fire and watched it burn, his eyes alight with a strange combination of defiance and despair. 

His mother recoiled and gawped frantically between him and the flames. ‘John?’ she questioned. ‘John, what was that? What did it say?’

John turned from the hearth and thundered away, his eyes dark and dangerous with misery. With a voice thick with passion, he said in a husky mutter: ‘It says she never wants to see me again.’

As he made his way from the room, his hand swiped, and he snatched a crystal decanter of brandy. His mother gasped, for John hardly ever consumed drink, only taking the odd glass after a particularly pressurising day, or at a dinner party. As Mrs Thornton watched her son stomp along the corridor towards his study and slam the door behind him with a resounding bang, all she could do was boo under her breath: ‘That woman!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I think if the past two chapters were a Friends episode, then they would be called: “The one with all the letters.” For those of you who were wondering who Mr Whitehall is, if you cast your mind back to Chapter 11: Three Act Drama: Act 3, (seems an age ago), he was the young man from down the street who had a father in prison for a range of petty crimes, including the not-so-nice crime of gross abuse against his family. Our boy John has had a bit of a Mafia moment and told the bad old bully to back off - or else.  
> On another note, those who wish to follow/engage with me out with this site, you can do so via Twitter or Facebook.  
> My Twitter/Facebook handle is @TheScribblerCMB  
> I have created a Facebook page, (above), for readers to follow if they wish to. The main purposes of the page are to:  
> -Receive updates about my writing, including when I post new chapters online, when I start new projects, when I publish new articles, and when I professionally publish creative works. This helps readers to be kept up to date with any writing that I may be doing and publishing, so they can be the first to know and easily access it if they want to.  
> -To have a bit of fun and share our interest in literature through sharing memes, gifs, literary quotes, and fun polls.  
> -To give other writers the opportunity to share their work through offering prompts and the chance to publish extracts of their writing on my page, (anonymously if they prefer).  
> -To give writers and readers a safe and inclusive space to engage and connect within a like-minded community.
> 
> The page has just been made, so does not have a lot of content, but I hope it can develop into an exciting forum, which I would love to see you be part of, if that would interest you. There is a little video up where you can meet me and hear more about my plans for the page, so do come check it out.


	18. UPDATE FROM THE AUTHOR

**UPDATE FROM THE AUTHOR:**

**SELF-PUBLISHING PLANS**

**(Classed as chapter 18)**

Ooh, I know, naughty me! This isn’t a chapter, (obviously), but the next chapter has been posted straight after this, so hopefully you won’t be too disappointed.

This is a wee update to keep readers informed about my plans to self-publish this story as well as The Thornton Tales. If this update doesn’t interest you, then no worries, just skip it and continue onto the next chapter. To be fair, it’s mainly me wittering on about my writing plans, so, you know ─ yawn! **To answer what will probably be your main question: Yes, the main story of A Mother’s Final Gift, (AMFG), will be completed and published for free on this website. In other words, you will not suddenly be asked to pay to read the rest of the story.**

For those of you who want to know more, then I’ve written some info below. If you’re wondering why the heck I’ve posted this at all, it’s because I believe in being open with readers and keeping them informed, that is, for those who wish to be kept informed. If you’ve got any questions, just comment/message/reach me on social media.

**A** **MOTHER’S FINAL GIFT**

**Will you be finished the story soon?** I’m hoping to finish the story round about the end of March. It all depends on how real life goes.

**What are your self-publishing plans for AMFG?** Once I’ve finished writing/publishing this story on this site, I plan to review, edit and extend it. I then plan to self-publish this revised version, where it will be available to buy as both a physical book and an e-book internationally.

**Will you suddenly stop the story for free and ask people to pay?** No! While I’ve absolutely no issue with people who have worked very hard to write a story asking for financial return, I do take issue with people starting something for free and then changing the game part way through. That is not fair to you, the reader. Therefore, I’ll complete the main story for free online and then will publish an extended version for sale after.

**When do you plan to self-publish it?** It all depends how quickly I get through it, but I hope to have it published no later than the start of November 2021. If you’re wondering why it might take a few months, then keep reading to the next question.

**What will be included in the published version that is not here?** I plan to do a few things with the published version that I haven’t here. 1: I’ll go through the story and edit it to ensure there are no spelling or grammar mistakes. As you’ve maybe seen, my grammar is scarily bad. 2: I’ll maybe extend a few chapters by adding in some more scenes or bits of dialogue. I may also split some of the longer chapters up to make them easier to read. But the main two changes are: 3: I’ll not include the epilogue on these sites but will leave that for the book. Before you get mad, I have thought about this, and the epilogue will not include any need-to-know info about the main story, it will be like a short story in its own right. Unlike typical epilogues, this will be a short story that follows John and Margaret over some of the days, weeks and months following their wedding, exploring some of their milestone moments in that period. 4: I plan to include 3-4 short stories or one-shots at the end of the book that are totally separate from AMFG and The Thornton Tales. They will be alternative pre-marriage shorts that look at other ways John and Margaret could have gotten together. These shorts will be exclusive to the published book. They’re part of a short story/one-shot series I’m considering on writing about their pre-marriage life/angst/getting together titled: “Before We Were Us.”

**Will the main story still be available for free on this site:** While I’m happy to keep the main story for free on this site for several months, come the time to self-publish, the requirements of these sites and the publishing company will most likely request that I remove it from here. Sad, I know, but hopefully for most people who wanted to read this story, they will have plenty of time to do so before then.

**Why self-publish it at all? What’s the point?** Good question! To answer simply, it was Neil Gaiman who said: “A book is a dream you hold in your hands.” Now, I know this story isn’t perfect; it has its flaws, and it isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, that’s okay. There are many other stories on this site that are probably much better, but still, I like it. I’m actually quite proud of it, it’s my baby, and I want to hold it in my hands as a finished book, complete with cover and blurb. So, it occurred to me, I’ve almost finished writing it, so why not polish it up and get it published, so it can sit on my shelf as my own little accomplishment. It doesn’t matter if hardly anyone buys it, that’s not the point, I’ll still be proud of myself.

**How will I know once it’s been self-published and is ready to buy?** I’m planning to put up a link at the end of the story to a newsletter option, so I can send interested readers emails about any new stories/publications I’m working on. Or you can follow me on Twitter or FB at: @TheScribblerCMB and I will post updates there.

**THE THORNTON TALES**

Some of you may know that I’ve started writing a series titled: “The Thornton Tales.” Let’s call it TTT, (my that sounds/looks weird). This is a series of one-shots and shorts about John and Margaret’s life after they marry. I’ve decided to also try and self-publish a series of books under this title/theme after I’ve done AMFG.

**Why are you starting with self-publishing AMFG:** Again, good question. You’d think it would make sense to move on an publish TTT first. True, but for lots of reasons, I’m doing AMFG first, partly because lots of the stories in TTT reference events in AMFG and readers need to have the original text available to potentially refer back to. Man, all the abbreviations here makes me look really geeky.

**What’s the plan?** Okay, so I currently have roughly 50 stories in my head for TTT – yikes! So, the plan is to maybe write it in three volumes, with roughly 15-20 stories per book. So, depending on how long this fad of mine lasts, there could be roughly three separate volumes of this being self-published.

**Will it contain smut:** Another great question! Yes and no. I’ve thought about this a lot, as I know smut is controversial. I’ll write 2-3 non-smut ones that only have fluff. These books may refer to sex, but it will be strictly family friendly. However, I’ll write a separate smut heavy book that contains smut only, so we can go full steam ahead with the naughty bits, so much so that we may make a sailor blush. It will be like a 50 Shades of Grey for the Victorian period/North and South, just with less mean stuff. That way readers can actively choose to buy a smutty book knowing full well what they are getting, and for those who find that stuff yucky, they don’t have to go through the stress of flicking through chapters in the fear they will read a rude word.

**What’s the time frame?** Again, it depends. With there being 15-20 stories per book, then it will probably take about 25 weeks to write/edit/publish each book. So, once I’ve finished AMFG in October-November time, (hopefully, if not sooner), then it will be straight onto TTT.

**Will you publish any stories for free on this site:** Yes, I plan to publish roughly 1/4 of the TTT stories for free on this site in order to give readers a taste of what is in the books. They can then decide if they’d be interested in getting the books or would rather just stick with the online freebies. All stories that are available for free on the site will be edited and possibly expanded for the book, so there will be variations.

**Will it still be available on this site for free after you self-publish:** I honestly don’t know. It may be that it is allowed because it is not classed as a full story. I will have to see.

**How will I know once it has been self-published and is ready to buy?** Same as for AMFG.

Anyhoo, I hope that was informative and not too boring. Knowing me, it was painfully dull. Anyway, again, any questions, just give me a shout.

Take care,

Caroline X


	19. PANDORA'S BOX: PART 1 OF 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have another ridiculously long chapter for you. All the same, I hope you enjoy it and can appreciate it for its in-depth approach and the amount of thought that I’ve tried to put in. Still, this chapter is very long, a bit longer than John’s chat with his Mum in his bedroom, so I’ve decided to split this chapter into 2 parts, even although both are from the same scene/conversation. It means you can read it more easily and the whole chapter has been written, I’ll just post them a couple of days apart. Anyway, I hope you like it.

CHAPTER 19:

PANDORA’S BOX

PART 1 OF 2

Margaret shambled along the corridors towards her mother’s bedchamber. With her feet dragging behind her in dissent, she was hardly able to muster the strength to take another step, let alone contemplate the possibility of indulging in conversation, especially one that consisted of anything more momentous than meaningless small talk.

Finally, when she reached the door, she paused, as if on the brink of a precipice which threatened to hurl her into an abyss from which she could never find her way back home. Inhaling and exhaling to the rhythm of her heart, she fortified herself. Margaret did not know what her mother wanted or needed from her, but she knew that whatever it was, she must try and be brave, she must not worry her mother with any implication that she was faltering and failing, that she herself desperately craved to be cared for. She would get through this, this tête-à-tête, this commitment, then, she would retreat to her own bed, crawl under her covers, and give in to the anguish that had infested her, poisoning her like an incurable disease.

After several minutes, she stood firm and forcing her cheeks into an upward lilt, Margaret painted on a smile, a sham, one which masked the despair within. At last, she pushed open the door, ready to perform her part, her role as the dutiful daughter who never grumbled about her own trials, only ever seeking to help others.

As she looked towards the bed, Margaret was surprised to see her mother as she did, not quite sure if she found the sight comforting or concerning. For some time, her mother had not been herself. From the day they had left Helstone, she had become progressively withdrawn, hardly ever talking, or smiling, or laughing, preferring instead to perpetually fret and complain. Then, yesterday, she seemed to have taken on another character altogether. She was oddly agitated and animated, as if she had a pesky bee in her bonnet. It was as if something were troubling her conscience and it refused to leave her in peace.

Margaret had been in two minds about it. In one sense, she was delighted to see her mother so diverted, so sprightly. Yet, she worried that her mother’s energies would soon deplete, and she would collapse into an even greater gulf of depression after this spell of vitality and enthusiasm had dwindled. However, today, her mother was neither lively nor listless, she was simply quiet. She was sitting in her bed idly shuffling a deck of cards, staring at a pair, the King and Queen of Hearts it seemed, her eyes shining with a curious concentration.

On hearing Margaret arrive, Mrs Hale peered up. She did not startle, which was unusual in itself, because flightiness was in her nature of late, but she merely glanced up securely in the knowledge that the one she had been awaiting had arrived at long last. Mrs Hale observed her daughter with a scrutinising stare, as if she were assessing her, as if she were seeing straight through her. It was unnerving. Finally, she reached out her hand, mutely summoning her companion to come closer and repose beside her, entering the intimacy of that strange and imperceptible circumference that encompasses a sickbed.

‘Margaret, my little one, come sit by me,’ she invited, a gentle smile softening her previously serious features.

Margaret hesitated, flustered by her mother’s tranquil deportment. However, ever the devoted child, she soon forced her feet to shuffle forwards and took a seat beside the bed, puffing out her skirts and lowering herself with the effortless elegance that she possessed in her every fibre, right down to her pinkie. She deflected her gaze to the floor, for it was tinged with the reserved tint of reticence. Margaret attempted to hide her tears, which in their stubbornness, refused to dry, lingering instead as wilful splodges on her cheeks, made worse by the crimson halos that had left blotches around her puffy eyes.

The maternal instincts that were innate to Mrs Hale’s sensibilities allowed her to note her daughter’s guarded demeanour in an instant. Frowning, she ducked her head so that she might better examine Margaret’s countenance, one which she was sorry to see was terribly wan. Where Margaret was usually rosy in her complexion, her skin was now dulled by a pallid pigment, which made her appear wretched.

As she listened to the howl of the winter gale as it hammered at the house like an unwelcome intruder seeking shelter, Mrs Hale’s discernment fell upon the blizzard that whirled about in the blackness, waltzing with its partner, the wind. As the glass of the window became obscured by sleet, the room was cast into a dim darkness, the walls bathed in the glow of a smouldering and sporadic light from the fire. Despite the intensive heat and smallness of the room, Mrs Hale felt that it was cosy. She believed that she and Margaret were now cocooned in their own little refuge, one where the outside world no longer mattered, and one where a mother and daughter could share the innermost troubles of their hearts.

Stretching out her lean hand and patting Margaret’s, Mrs Hale enquired with a sympathetic tone: ‘Are you well, my darling dove? You look…,’ she combed for the precise word, finally settling on: ‘unhappy.’

Margaret bristled and rearranged herself distractedly in the chair, her palms smoothing down the crinkles in her bodice, the brown fabric reflecting her cheerless mood.

‘Fine,’ she muttered, although, in her haste to reply, she had forgotten to disguise her distress, which floated out like a wisp of air, disintegrating into nothing more than an abject pitch. Clearing her throat, she added with an attempt at bravado: ‘I am quite well, Mama, I assure you.’

Mrs Hale continued to watch her daughter with an apprehensive eye, one which flitted up and down the girl’s quaking figure. Margaret recoiled under the intensity of her mother’s observation, but with stalwart determination, she refused to let her courage crumble. In the end, Mrs Hale simply murmured: ‘Well, if you are sure,’ her tone blended with scepticism.

Hauling her frail body up into a more respectable position, one that was less of a languid recline and more of a pose that resembled the rigidity of royalty, Mrs Hale commenced her interview. Deliberating over how to start, she resolved that it was best not to be invasive or officious, instead choosing to broach the delicate subject with diplomacy and a great deal of much needed sensitivity.

Plucking at the tassels of her shawl, she opened with: ‘I have called you here because we need to have a little chat, mother to daughter.’ Her oration was firm, which she was grateful for, for underneath her charade of serenity, her nerve was faltering.

Margaret’s bowed head reared, and she regarded her mother with wariness, her chest giving way to a prickly flush that gradually spread across her skin and stained her with a rouge blush. ‘Oh!’ she breathed, with a pretence of nonchalance. ‘What about?’

Fixing her daughter with an unwavering and solemn stare, Mrs Hale concluded that the time for shilly-shallying was well and truly over. Slowly, she peeled back the folds of her bedclothes to reveal two items hidden beneath. Glancing down, Margaret was confronted by a pair of long, thick, black leather gloves. Gentleman’s garments. They were resting on her mother’s lap with inexplicable innocence, as if the inanimate objects had no knowledge of the significance they held not only to their owner, but to the lady who now gawked at them in horror.

Margaret choked. ‘ _How_?’ she spluttered; the syllable hardly able to escape her lungs, which seemed to shrink and shrivel under the shame that now consumed her.

Mrs Hale quirked her eyebrow. ‘I think I shall be asking the questions, don’t you?’ she said, her timbre both laced with a twinge of humour, but also with a distinct soberness that disclosed her censure.

Unable to stand Margaret’s flummoxed expression, which simply gaped at the gloves with flabbergasted alarm, she opted to explain the situation. ‘Dixon found them. I sent her to your room to fetch me some thread and she came across them in a drawer in your desk. Be assured that she believes they belong to your father, or perhaps even your brother. Thankfully, she is not aware of what I am, which she may have been if she had inspected the garments more closely,’ she finished tersely, pointing to the golden initials that had been woven into the material.

‘So, do pray tell me, young lady,’ she continued crisply, ‘why in God’s name do you have Mr Thornton’s gloves?’

Margaret did not utter a sound, for she just sat stock-still, her mouth trembling, her wearied body shaking, and her complexion as white as the snow that now plastered the windowpanes.

‘Margaret?’ her mother pressed firmly.

Still, nothing.

‘You _must_ tell me,’ she urged.

Margaret gulped and as she did, droplets of salted tears began to seep from her eyes and roll down her face like a river that was soaked and nourished by the rain of misery, the weeping waters of broken-hearted souls.

Grappling for air, she whispered: ‘I can’t.’

Mrs Hale felt her stern propensities yield at the sight of her desolate daughter. She herself had been lucky in love, never having to face the bitter sting of youthful dalliances and shattered dreams. She could not pretend that she had not been disturbed by the revelation of the gloves which bore testimony to Margaret’s impropriety. However, she had to admit that perhaps this sorry state of affairs was not as black and white as she had first assumed.

With as much compassion as she could marshal, Mrs Hale gently encouraged Margaret to confide in her. ‘Darling, you must.’

But Margaret merely shook her head vehemently.

Mrs Hale thought for a moment and considered how best to appease the panic she could see was suffocating her dear girl. ‘I think, my treasured one,’ she soothed, ‘that you have been carrying a heavy burden in your heart. It is time to let it all out,’ she appealed, seeking to pacify the strife that stifled them both.

Margaret shivered and her shoulders heaved under the yoke of her sobbing. ‘I do not know where to start,’ she stuttered.

‘I think perhaps we should start with the most important point of all, do you not agree?’ her mother recommended.

‘Which is what?’ Margaret asked, pulling out her handkerchief and scoring beneath her damp eyelids.

Mrs Hale paused and took a minute to assemble her valour, for she half feared, and half hoped for the response to her impending query, the one which would dictate all others. At long last, she presented her primary question: ‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes.’

Both Margaret and her mother were astonished by the simplicity of the answer, the spontaneous way in which it was divulged. But it was true. Margaret was not ashamed of her feelings for Mr Thornton, and she was so exhausted by the immensity of her emotions that she could not hold it in any longer, her heart was pleading to be bled of the pain that it harboured alone.

Mrs Hale also noted that she had neglected to mention who “he” was, but she simpered privately at her daughter’s endearingly honest reaction. ‘We are talking of Mr Thornton?’ she clarified. ‘It is him whom you care for?’

‘Of course,’ Margaret sniffed defensively, as if it were obvious.

‘I thought so,’ Mrs Hale nodded astutely, relieved to definitively know for sure, the fog of uncertainty finally lifting, allowing her to see clearly once more. Then, she added with informality: ‘And he loves you.’

Margaret jumped and her eyes narrowed cynically, sharpening with suspicion. She glared as if her ears had just been insulted by a wicked lie. ‘No, he does not!’ she objected, her chin rising with reflexive insubordination.

Mrs Hale slanted her head, extremely surprised by this omission and its deliverance as a petulant outburst. To her, it was as clear as the distinction between day and night that Mr Thornton loved Margaret, so why-oh-why did her daughter resist the fact so fervently? It was a conundrum, a puzzle that she was determined to solve with the assistance of a little guileful sleuthing.

‘Why do you say that?’ she enquired, proffering the question with forthright simplicity.

Nevertheless, Margaret had no response to offer in return. ‘I…I.’

With a reassuring smile, her mother suggested: ‘Perhaps you should begin at the beginning.’

Margaret looked down at her shaking hands and started twisting her fingers and picking at the cuffs of her sleeves. She tried to calm her crying, but the more she struggled, the more she felt herself drowning. ‘Mother…you will be so disappointed,’ she whimpered as she blew the nose that was now as red as a strawberry. ‘You will be ─ so ─ you ─ you will not forgive me. I cannot bear upsetting you, not when you are…unwell.’

Mrs Hale let her gaze drift over Margaret’s face, and she was struck by the strangest feeling. She realised that Margaret was rendered divinely beautiful by grief. Was such a thing even possible? As she considered her, she watched a glistening tear, so sublimely delicate, as it trickled down Margaret’s jaw, finally settling in the crook of her neck. With the sheen of Margaret’s porcelain skin, the tear sparkled like a dewdrop of the purest crystal. Yes, Margaret’s grief may have been an ugly emotion for the poor child to suffer, but by Heavens! – she was radiant.

Her mother puffed. ‘Never mind me,’ she dismissed with a swat of her regal hand. Then, with a sigh, she thought that she had better enquire as to whether there was more to her daughter’s despairing mood than she had hitherto presumed, for it would not do to make mistakes when Margaret’s happiness was at risk.

‘Margaret, dearest,’ she initiated carefully, ‘have you acted in a way you should not have? Hmm, Margaret? Well? Are you penitent about anything you have done?’

Margaret looked up at her with a glower and Mrs Hale grinned, for where she should have been offended by her daughter’s impertinence, she was cheered. It restored her mother’s faith in the conviction that Margaret’s strength of character still burned beneath the surface, for it flashed with the glint of defiance that gleamed in her daughter’s eyes. It was all the evidence she needed to be assured that Margaret’s headstrong spirit had not been entirely vanquished by whatever blight had sought to smite it.

‘No!’ Margaret asserted decisively, her figure straightening and stiffening into a haughty posture. But then, she suddenly let out another blubbering sniffle and her whole body sagged like a sack of grocer’s spuds.

‘Oh, yes, I suppose I do feel ashamed,’ she confessed. ‘I mean, I do not regret some of the things I have done or said, but I do regret others. That is, I will not apologise for any acts that society may deem improper or inappropriate, for I do not care a fig about such conventional fripperies, you know I do not,’ she insisted amidst a series of hiccups. ‘Oh, but Mama, I am repentant about how I have treated...of what I said…to _him_ ,’ she finished lamely, her head once again drooping with the degradation of her remorse.

Mrs Hale cooed warmly. Oh – young love! In spite of Margaret’s overwhelming anxiety, she had a funny feeling that whatever had gone awry could be resolved and repaired, but still, it broke her heart to see her darling girl so inconsolable.

Leaning forward and raising her daughter’s chin, Mrs Hale gazed into her weepy eyes with such tender affection. ‘Margaret,’ she commenced kindly. ‘I may not be a woman of the world. I cannot claim to have much experience, and so, cannot offer you any sage advice. But dearest, I am your mother and I love you,’ she reassured, her fingers stroking Margaret’s jaw.

‘A mother’s love is constant and holds firm, no matter what winds or waves may try to sink the ship. It is dependable. It is unwavering. It is made of the fiercest spirit of fortitude and withstands all storms. So, my girl, I cannot promise that I will approve of all you say, I may even feel let down, I cannot know until you tell me everything. However, I know _you_. You are an extraordinary young lady with the most generous heart. So, I doubt anything you could say would make me think any less of you. But, for your sake, you must tell me, and I promise that in the end, I will love you just as much as ever,’ she pledged.

‘It is time to open Pandora’s box. We may not like the mysterious realities we find within, the madness of the chaos may even frighten us, but Margaret, it is time.’

Margaret bit her lip and with no more than a faint whisper, she let the excruciating truth pour from her lips: ‘He proposed.’

Mrs Hale snuffled. ‘I know.’

Margaret gasped. ‘How?’

Mrs Hale’s scrutiny fell upon the playing cards that lay on her knees. ‘I guessed as much. Something has been niggling away at me for the past two days. I was thinking about you and Fred. I was thinking about your futures and what they may hold. I was thinking…,’ she trailed off, her chords cracking. ‘I was thinking how much it grieves me to know that I shall not see them,’ she halted, her own eyes swelling up with unshed tears.

Determined not to make a show of herself, something fine ladies of her breeding never did, no matter what misfortunes they endured, she pressed on. ‘I was thinking how much I want to see you happily married and with a family of your own, wedded to a gentleman who will be good enough for you. I do not mean a man with money, property, or situation, although that would be lovely, but a man who can claim to be grounded in honour. A man who is principled. A man who is compassionate. A man who is well-informed. A man who is loyal. A man who could keep you on your toes and who in turn, would allow you to be independent and intelligent in your own right. A partner in life. I knew you needed someone who was strong, steadfast, and a soul that is home to a character of substance.’

Margaret listened attentively to her mother’s sermon, vigilant in assimilating every word, every inference. Then, after a period of reflection, she cocked her head and replied thoughtfully: ‘You say, “ _needed_ ,” as if it were in the past tense. As if I have already found such a man.’

Mrs Hale chuckled; her girl was so brilliantly clever. ‘Quite,’ she consented shrewdly. ‘I was thinking of such a theoretical husband and then, out of nowhere, Mr Thornton came to mind,’ she acknowledged, noting the way Margaret shifted in her seat, half in a state of unease, half with an air of piqued interest.

‘I can tell you that it was most unexpected and unsettling. It had been absurd enough adjusting to the idea of entertaining a tradesman in my house, let alone my thoughts, I will have you know. I tried to banish him, but he stayed like some sort of tenacious, unsolicited guest. Nevertheless, it then suddenly occurred to me that there might be something between you,’ she went on, perceiving the way Margaret’s eyes darted up ruefully.

‘I cast my mind back and…well…the pieces of the puzzle, they all came together and painted a rather vivid picture, one that spoke of a mutual attraction and affection, albeit one that was still maturing.’ Mrs Hale smirked at the sight of Margaret’s deepening blush that now ascended her slender neck and tickled the lobes of her ears. Poor girl, underneath her veneer of audacity, she really was so incredibly innocent, so charmingly maidenly.

‘On the rare occasions I had seen you together, there had been something undeniable, a spark, an invisible string that seemed to tether you to each other. But I had some more pieces that I needed to collect. Questions that needed answered. Such as: Why had he stayed away for so long? Why had you become so despondent? Why did everybody say that his already sour disposition had curdled, leaving him more ill-tempered than ever? And why were you so anxious about seeing him?’ She spotted the way that Margaret had bent forward and now regarded her mother with fascination, as if she too wished to know the key to these riddles.

‘There seemed to be an obvious answer,’ she said, her fingers tapping the King and Queen of Hearts before her. ‘He had proposed, and you had refused. That would explain everything.’

Margaret’s body jarred and she skulked back in her seat, bitten by the realism of her mother’s speculations.

‘So, with no other way of amassing and assembling my pieces, I rather artfully invited him to tea last night,’ Mrs Hale professed.

Margaret was shocked and a look of indignation shrouded her face, for she was smarted by her mother’s guile and patent lack of contrition. ‘That is what that was all about?’ she pouted, finally beginning to understand the eccentric way in which the mistress of the house had been behaving yesterday.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Hale clucked. ‘I am sorry if you feel used, my dear. If you feel kept in the dark. I know my actions were sly, underhand even, but I had to see you both together again. It was essential. I wanted to ascertain whether my mind had been playing tricks on me, or whether indeed, as I very much suspected, you cared for each other.’

With a frown, Margaret began to nibble one of her fingernails and thought this admission through. It was true that she was upset, for she did not like deceit, as she believed it rotted even the most resilient of relationships. However, her outrage soon dwindled, and her intrigue once again resurfaced, muddying all other emotions. With more than a little curiosity, she asked: ‘And…what did you find out?’

Mrs Hale laughed. ‘Never in all my years have I seen two people so in love with each other,’ she said softly.

Margaret quailed, then abruptly rose, her eyes alight with anguish. Folding her arms, she began to pace around the room, constantly shaking her head and muttering incoherently under her breath.

Mrs Hale kept going, despite her mounting alarm at Margaret’s sudden display of discomfort. ‘I discovered two young people absolutely enchanted by each other,’ she maintained, her gaze tracking Margaret’s restless steps. ‘Smitten. Besotted. Awe-struck. Hardly able to keep their eyes off each other. Both desperate to express their feelings but held back by their shyness and the crippling impediment of social expectations of restraint.’

Margaret came to a stop and gave her mother a look that the ailing woman could not quite fathom, but it chilled her soul, for it was marked by melancholy. ‘You are wrong, Mama!’ Margaret declared, so fervently that she almost shouted. ‘I am sorry to say that you are terribly mistaken. That is, it is true about me, I do care for him, more than I can say,’ she corrected. ‘Although, I had not realised it at the time. I only realised…’

Margaret clutched her breast and tried to allay the fitful drumming of her heart, which knew instinctively of whom she was talking, of whom she was thinking, for he was always on the tip of her tongue, always entrenched in her mind…always.

‘I only realised when he left. When he told me…,’ she lagged.

Mrs Hale sighed and beckoned for Margaret to resume her seat. ‘Margaret, start at the beginning,’ she advised, readying herself to listen to what a mother fears to hear the most: a narrative of her child’s unhappiness.

Margaret complied and returned to her chair. As she sat, she grimaced as she felt her belly tighten with a familiar twist of muscles, for she was soon due to start her course. As she caressed her aching tummy, little did she know that this bleeding would be the last one she would experience for some time, for next month, she would no longer be a maiden, and not only that, but she would also be with child.

It took her a minute to rally the necessary courage, but eventually, Margaret took a deep breath and commenced. ‘Mr Thornton and I…it is hard to explain. From the moment I first saw him, standing there, on the platform, surveying his mill…I,’ she stared off into the void of thin air, as if her memory were transporting her across town, back in time, to the very moment itself. ‘It was like time stopped. It was as if my soul staggered to the fore, desperate to reach him. I could not rationalise it, for I knew nothing of him, I did not even know his name. We had not been introduced; you see. But I just…I think part of me knew, even then, that this stranger would become the most precious person in all the world to me.’

_Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?_ Mrs Hale mused wistfully.

Margaret absently fingered a stray ringlet that had tumbled down from its pins and now lay on her temple. ‘Our relationship was compromised from the very start. I saw him beating one of his workers and I instantly turned against him. I decided that I abhorred him. He came to symbolise all my resentment, all my animosity towards this hostile place,’ she described mulishly, her eyes flickering with the reminiscence of her contempt for him, an attitude that had long since faded, replaced by something much more accepting.

‘We seemed to always squabble. We could hardly open our mouths without bickering. It was almost like we both did it on purpose. Still, even although we argued, it was not always with animosity,’ she clarified, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips. ‘It was like two friends, two equals being free to share their opinions. He ─ he let me be myself. Mr Thornton let me be me with all my views, my obstinacy, my utter want of conventionality. He did not mind it. It was as if it did not threaten or offend him, but rather, that it fascinated him. For all my frustration with Mr Thornton, I felt…safe with him ─ I felt whole.’

Mrs Hale’s heart soared.

Still, Margaret continued: ‘There was something about Mr Thornton that drew me in. I could not stand him, yet…I always wanted to see him, to be near to him. I would feel a thrill every time he came here, every time I served him tea, every time he looked at me, every time we spoke,’ she stated, letting out a shrill snort of disbelief, hardly able to trust that she had felt so much for this man for so long, yet had been completely blind to the fact.

‘I know, I could see it,’ Mrs Hale interjected, although her contribution seemed to fall on deaf ears, for Margaret was still lost in her soliloquy.

‘Then there was the dinner party. He was so handsome. So commanding. As soon as he entered the room, it was as if I could only look at him. He has such a superior presence, does he not? Not in an arrogant way, no, quite the opposite, I feel. He is humble, almost doubtful of himself. I do not think he even knows that he is so dashing, so…so mesmerising. He is ignorant of the influence his company; his mere existence has on others…has on me. Then, he came to me. I felt my heart flutter as he walked towards me, and when our hands touched, I felt every nerve in my body tingle, parts of me that I did not know existed,’ she described breathlessly, her face flushed with the excitement of the memory.

‘It was like everything else receded into insignificance and we were the only two people in the world. Still, it did not last, and we were interrupted. When he walked away from me to discuss the strike, I was peculiarly disappointed, I did not want him to leave. I wished I could have asked him to stay, I know it was not proper, but that is how I felt. And oddly enough, I think he would have said yes,’ she said coyly, embarrassed by her own quixotic idiocy.

‘The dinner itself was a farce! I could not stand the way they all so carelessly dismissed the needs of those who were striking. It is as if they had no concept that these were human beings, their own employees, people who were starving, people who had children they could not protect. They did not care that parents had to watch while their babies were sent to an early grave! Heartless! That is what those people are ─ heartless!’ Margaret seethed, her sanctimonious indignation simmering.

‘Mr Thornton and I quarrelled in front of everybody. I do feel penitent about that. I should not have confronted him so openly amongst his peers. He did not deserve it, not when he is by far the most noble man out of all of them. Oh!’ she exclaimed, rubbing her forehead. ‘I cannot rationalise what he does to me. I feel a heat rise inside me and I cannot help myself. I have never experienced such an instinct with anyone else. It was a disaster. We argued, and he admonished me. He rebuked me like I was a naughty, naive child.’

Mrs Hale listened. She knew all too well what Margaret was like when her moral mettle had been rattled. She could well imagine the scene, her daughter flushed with fury by the callous indifference of greedy, mercenary businessmen, who cared more for the condition of their purse than that of their ethical accountability. Still, she could not picture Mr Thornton in all of this. Would he have been peeved by Margaret’s pious defence of the poor and downtrodden? Or in contrast, would he, as she rather suspected, have been proud of her?

‘Was he angry?’ Mrs Hale asked.

Margaret pondered this. ‘No, he was not angry. He was…troubled by what I said. I think I hurt his feelings,’ she inhaled, burnt by the brutal realisation of it. ‘Then he turned to her, Miss Latimer. He turned to her and he smiled sweetly. It was at that point that my evening was over and nothing else mattered. It was ruined, there was no going back,’ she said, her voice dreadfully timid.

At this point in her story, Margaret’s doleful eyes went wide with terror and she recoiled. ‘Then _it_ happened,’ she hissed in hushed horror. ‘The riot.’

Mrs Hale jerked, knocking her pillows out of kilter. ‘Riot?’ she repeated. ‘What riot?’

Margaret cast her eyes to the ceiling in a shoddy attempt to conceal her awkwardness. ‘The one at Marlborough Mills,’ she clarified as quietly as she could, hopeful that her mother would fail to catch her reference, and they could promptly disregard the issue.

However, Margaret was to be disappointed, for her mother immediately latched on to this tidbit of news, squawking: ‘You were _there_?’

Margaret continued her inspection of the ceiling, calculating the number of instances of scuff marks, stains, or tatty paint that she could count. ‘Yes,’ she mumbled evasively after her tallying reached ten. Then, even more inaudibly, she affixed: ‘I was the one who was struck.’

Unfortunately for Margaret, where Mrs Hale’s body was failing, her mind was as fit as a fiddle and as sharp as a flint. Swaying, she squealed: ‘Oh, my Lord in Heaven! Margaret!’

It was at this time that Mrs Hale’s hawk eyes caught sight of a little imperfection that peeked out from the edge of Margaret’s hairline. Gingerly reaching forward with trembling hands, she pushed back the curls, revealing a healing gash. Falling back on her pillows, Mrs Hale let out an almighty scream.

Margaret winced at the pitch of her mother’s screech, which was so loud, she was convinced it would awaken even the dead. Although, fortunately for her, the outcry did not seem to rouse her father or Dixon.

Mrs Hale fanned herself and looked just about ready to faint as she panted amidst her palpitations. ‘My girl, my baby girl!’ she shrieked, grasping wildly for her smelling salts.

Margaret leapt to her feet and hastily assisted her mother in acquiring her tonics, plying them under her nose while the sickly woman lay back, her eyelids fluttering as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wing. ‘It is alright, Mama, really,’ Margaret soothed, mortified to have caused such a hullabaloo in the household. ‘Do not cry so. I am quite well. It looks worse than it is,’ she promised, her head growing dizzy from the potent aroma of the saline potion. ‘Dr Donaldson said so himself,’ she assured, although it seemed her mother was far from mollified to learn that the wound had been critical enough to require medical attention.

After a while, and after several histrionic sniffs of her stimulants, Mrs Hale’s tremors eventually began to subside, and an atmosphere of calm descended once more. With a strangled voice, she demanded to know: ‘What on earth happened?’

Margaret did not wish to reply, for she could not abide her mother knowing of her folly. If she did, she would be confessing her errors of judgment, all of which made her feel like a fool and an imprudent child. Nevertheless, she had no choice, for, in the end, it was inevitable that the truth would reveal itself.

‘I do not know. I just ─ I should never have suggested he go out there. You see, I made him. I advised him to go out and talk to the protesters, that such a course of action would be more humane than setting the soldiers on them. How could I have been so irresponsible?’ Margaret sighed, absently brushing at her scar.

‘That is, I feel no repentance for advising him to go and parley with his workers. That was the Christian thing to do. They were hungry, many of them were ill, they were all so desperate! They just wanted the right to be heard, to have their grievances heeded by the man they depend on. But I see now that it was not the right moment. I put his life in danger. As he went outside, I could see it in their eyes, they hated him, they wanted to harm him. I ran down after Mr Thornton and spoke with the crowd, implored them to leave him be. Then…’

Margaret flinched as she felt a shooting pain sear through her head like a scorching lance. Her eyes blurred with a series of flickering lights and her vision became hazy. She could hear the echo of cries in the distance, and close to her ear, she thought…she thought she could hear the soft mutterings of a man saying her name…calling her back to him…

Margaret opened her eyes and all at once, the spell was shattered, and she melted back into the familiar surroundings of her mother’s bedroom. Shuddering, she went on, her words tumbling out in disarray. ‘I do not know what came over me. My arms were around his neck…we were spinning ─ he ─ Mr Thornton was pleading with me to go inside ─ his eyes ─ he said he would take me…he…then it happened. The stone hit me, and then...it all went dark.’

‘Good God!’ Mrs Hale wailed; her face so aghast that one might think Margaret had just slapped her.

‘The next thing I can remember was waking up in the Thornton’s parlour. I cannot recall how or when I got there. I assume…I assume he carried me,’ Margaret mused, her cheeks colouring, for in truth, she had never previously considered how she got there, but of course, it was obvious. The thought of being sheltered in his strong arms sent a shiver up her spine.

Staring off into the distance, Margaret wrapped her own arms around her waist and dreamily murmured: ‘I have the strangest feeling that I can imagine his voice…sometimes at night, when I am asleep…I can hear it…it is like a distant echo…his deep, rich burr, like a lullaby…’

_“Oh, my Margaret ─ my Margaret! no one can tell what you are to me! Dead -─ cold as you lie there you are the only woman I ever loved! Oh, Margaret ─ Margaret!”_

Disturbing herself from her daze, she resumed: ‘I was roused by the hum of his sister prattling on. She said that I had thrown myself at him. That I had attempted to ensnare him,’ Margaret bustled glumly, nipped by the vile insinuation. ‘I left as soon as I could. I would not stay to be insulted thus. I would not stay to see him, I just couldn’t.’

Mrs Hale huffed self-importantly, her eyes awash with resentment. ‘I am so furious!’ she fizzed. ‘How dare he?! He should have come and told your father and I. He should have taken responsibility! Mr Thornton has let us down most grievously,’ she asserted.

Margaret shook her head. ‘Do not be angry with him, _please_ ,’ she begged.

Nevertheless, despite Margaret’s appeal, her mother was still incensed, appalled at the idea that one of her baby chicks had been put in harm’s way, and that she herself had been powerless to prevent it.

‘You were in his care when it happened, Margaret. To think my little girl was injured while under his protection and he did nothing ─ _nothing_!’ she booed. ‘He was a coward. There is no excuse for his disgraceful negligence. He certainly did not behave like a gentleman,’ she condemned in the gravest tone, her face set in stony ire.

At this, Margret flew to her feet. Heightened by her self-righteous stance, she found herself towering over her mother, her fists clenched at her side, and her slender body quivering with distress at her mother’s merciless assault on Mr Thornton and his blameless character.

‘Oh, but you’re wrong!’ she vindicated brashly. ‘Don’t you see, he did! He was a perfect gentleman. He was defending my honour,’ she championed, her arms waving about in expressive circles. ‘He knew that if he came and spoke to you and papa that my actions would be questioned. He knew that I may be forced into a marriage of convenience. He was giving me the dignity of privacy and the right to make my own decisions and mistakes without them being mistrusted by others. He was not being a coward, no, he was shielding me! In your eyes he may have done nothing, Mama, but in mine, he did far more than any other man ever would have!’

Once she had finished her passionate defence of the prosecution, Margaret was left breathless, her lungs rising and falling in a bid to steady themselves. Looking into her mother’s opaque eyes, Margaret’s own were rendered beautiful by a beseeching quality, an entreaty for her mother to forgive Mr Thornton, to exonerate him of the crime of being spineless and selfish in the face of accountability.

As her mother peered back, she felt the longing that gushed out of her daughter, and in that moment, she realised that Margaret was right. For all her justified anger as a parent, for all her worry, she knew that Mr Thornton had done the right thing. Perhaps he had not done right by Mr and Mrs Hale, but he had clearly had Margaret’s best interests at heart, and surely, that was what mattered most. One day Margaret would understand her mother’s anguish, one day when she had children of her own, she would know what it was like to be overwhelmed by concern, guilt even, at having not shielded them more successfully from the perils of this world. But for now, she was content to let her daughter stand up for the man she loved most devotedly.

Blubbing, Mrs Hale was keen to change the direction of this discussion. So, with a snuffle, she ventured to assess the consequence of the insurgence at Marlborough Mills, the climax of her daughter’s correspondingly physical and emotional entanglement with Milton’s most prominent master, and, more importantly, its most eligible bachelor.

Taking a breath, she uttered: ‘So, after all that, I take it he asked for your hand?’

Margaret swallowed thickly, and her gaze fell upon the gloves, the black leather glowing in the dim light of dusk.

‘Yes…the very next day.’


	20. PANDORA'S BOX: PART 2 OF 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first part, even although the two sections are ridiculously long. I have tried to give the conversations that John and Margaret have with their mothers a script-like feel, so that we can get a real sense of their feelings, as well as their relationships with key characters. I think it also gives us a chance to feel a bit like a fly on the wall and look at many aspects of the story that we don’t usually get to see, such as one of Margaret’s parents reacting to everything that has passed between her and Mr Thornton. Besides, Mrs Hale is supposed to be a central character in this version, so it’s important that she gets the chance to have a voice. Anyhoo, I hope you like it all the same.

CHAPTER 20:

PANDORA’S BOX

PART 2 OF 2

Mrs Hale’s fingers drummed away to the relentless tempo of the clock, as it clicked its repetitive tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The pulse like beat was so infuriatingly regular, that she would gladly have picked up the device and smashed it against the wall, thus halting time in its tracks. But alas, her frailty would not permit such an upsurge of exasperation, so, for now, time was safe to perform its menacing march.

She sat patiently, pending the moment Margaret felt ready to resume her tale, knowing that it was best to give the girl the chance to reveal her version of events at her own pace. It seemed that Margaret’s story had its seasons, with its days of optimistic spring, joyful summer, and the contentious changeability of autumn, in which beauty sheds its vibrant robes and starkness reigns in its place, festooned in its crown of naked branches. Her mother felt sure they were now nearing the bitter end of this sorry saga, the winter of her daughter’s discontent.

Eventually, Margaret raised her moist eyes from the gloves, and with a voice that squeaked as indistinctly as a mouse, she uttered: ‘Mr Thornton came the next day. I knew it was coming. I was waiting for him. He…’

A stray tear trundled down from Margaret’s lids and dripped onto her left ring finger, a cruel reminder of her lack of a jewelled or golden band, her lack of a fiancé, her lack of an admirer, the absence of John Thornton. If only she had known that very soon indeed, that very same man would be slipping an engagement ring onto her finger, she may have danced with joy.

‘He was so…he was vulnerable, Mother! I could not abide it!’ Margaret snivelled, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, an indecorous act that would have made her Aunt Shaw give way to a hissy-fit, an indecorous act in itself.

‘I had not expected him to be like that - honestly! I had expected him to be assertive, arrogant even. I had expected him to be cold, detached, to treat it like a business arrangement. But, oh God! – how wrong I was! As soon as I arrived in the room, I could see it, I could sense it in the atmosphere. He was so nervous. So afraid. So hopeful. So beautifully inept. He floundered. He was flustered. He was charming in his incompetence. I could not stand it!’ she wept.

Goodness! – if this had been any other conversation, Margaret might have felt mortified over her spells of silly crying, for she herself held little sway with such a pointless display of emotion. Crying in itself was not wrong or weak, but she thoroughly believed that pragmatic action was the best solution to any cause of dissatisfaction. She was never usually so sensitive, but today, well, it was like the floodgates had opened. Margaret was only grateful that she was having this exchange with her mother and not Mrs Thornton, who she feared would have scolded her and skelped her backside by now for being so irrationally hysterical. For the first time since coming to Milton, Margaret felt marginally sorry for Fanny Thornton for having such a dragon for a Mama.

Mrs Hale sighed sympathetically. Indeed, she herself could hardly credit Margaret’s account of the mill master’s vulnerable state. On the rare occasions that she had experienced Mr Thornton’s company, he had certainly come across as a judicious sort of boy, one who thought rationally, opposed to expressively. She would not describe him as taciturn, but he was a shy lad, a private one that kept his emotions locked away behind a mask of respectable reserve. Perhaps that was no wonder after all the strains he had been forced to shoulder as a youngster. However, after last night, she faithfully believed that underneath his hard exterior of severity, he was probably a sensitive man inside, one who was susceptible to the richest and most sincere of feelings, including unswerving love.

‘What did he say?’ Mrs Hale questioned.

Margaret twisted her head away, trying to hide her vexation. ‘I had expected him to address me with terms of responsibility, both mine and his. I had anticipated that he would remind me that I had compromised us both and that matrimony was the only option. I had envisaged no emotion. But as soon as he began…’

_‘Miss Hale, my feelings for you are very strong.’_

Margaret shuddered under the tormenting memory of his tenderness. ‘I was not prepared for that, so, I stopped him.’

Mrs Hale considered this. ‘Why did you refuse him?’ She had several of her own conjectures to choose from, but it was better to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

Margaret blinked. The question was simple enough, yet its answer was anything but. In truth, she had thought about it so often, but had never reached a satisfactory conclusion. ‘I do not know,’ she confessed pitifully. ‘I did not know that I loved him, really I did not. I was confused. I was tired. I blamed him for Bessy. I blamed him for the struggles I had witnessed with the strike,’ she rationalised. ‘But more than anything, I did not want him to ask because he had to. I wanted him to ask because he genuinely loved me.’

‘But you say that you believe he did love you,’ her mother clarified, striving to help her daughter realise the error in her own logic. ‘You said that he was far from apathetic when he addressed you, that he was bristling with sentiment.’

The simple fact was that either Mr Thornton cared for Margaret, or he did not, and as far as Mrs Hale could tell, all the evidence supported her theory that he was indeed very much in love with her.

Margaret creased her nose in contemplation. ‘Yes! No! Maybe ─ I don’t know!’ she carped, standing up again and striding around the room once more.

‘He…it seemed as if he did. He was distressed by my refusal. It still shakes me to the core. A man such as him with so much might, so much majesty in his every look, his every touch, his every fibre, I cannot believe that I brought him so low. But I think now that it was more likely because my abominable remarks made him feel like a fool.’

‘Love makes fools of us all,’ Mrs Hale simpered wisely.

‘He is no fool, Mama!’ Margaret snapped. ‘Not one bit of it! He is fair, steadfast, intellectual, dependable, conscientious, sweet, benevolent. He is the very best of men and I humiliated him…I hurt him.’

Mrs Hale tutted. Poor Margaret. Poor Mr Thornton, it seemed. ‘What did you say?’

Margaret glared at the carpet. ‘Horrible things. I alleged that he wanted to take advantage of our diminished circumstances, that he wished to buy me like some sort of trinket, that I should expect no less from a man in trade. I accused him of wishing to possess me. I charged him with not being a gentleman, as if such a thing matters anyway, as if such a petty factor were a crime that I had found him guilty of. For shame! I made him out to be a brute.’

‘Oh, Margaret! The poor boy!’ Mrs Hale gasped.

‘I lied to him. I knew that there was no foundation in those ludicrous defamations, that it had nothing to do with such slanders. I invented them to conceal the truth. I refused him because I cannot stand the idea of having my independence stolen by matrimony. I could not bear to have my spouse dictate to me. I worried that a man such as he who is used to getting his own way would want to control me, to restrain me, to bend me to his will. It would be the worst sort of degradation, the worst sort of cage, no matter how gilded it may be. I will not be a husband’s ornament, like some sort of brainless doll that just smiles obediently and cannot think or feel for herself. I will not be a mere parrot who is expected to mimic her husband’s opinions. No! I would rebel! I would! I am a living, breathing soul and I demand to have my own voice!’ Margaret stressed, as she constantly stalked from one side of the bedchamber to the other like a wild lioness.

After her impassioned tirade, Margaret collapsed against the wall and shook her head sadly. As Mrs Hale watched her daughter, she could have sworn that she saw all the fight float out of Margaret like a ghost, leaving behind the quaking body of a mortal girl who was simply overwhelmed by grief.

‘But he is not like that, is he?’ Margaret breathed. ‘He would never try and manipulate or manage me. He is too good for that. I told myself he would because it was easier to believe it,’ she admitted. ‘I did not know my own heart. I refused him because I was bewildered. I knew he had a claim to my affections, something strange, but I could not comprehend it and it frightened me. I think I said no because I could not bear for him to ask because he had to. I wanted him to ask because he _wanted_ to, because he _wanted_ me, _needed_ me, just like I did him.’

Covering her face with her hands, she concluded: ‘He was devastated. He left. And I have been unable to tell him how sorry I am.’

Mrs Hale felt her own heart bleed, for life was so unfair.

‘Would you change what you said? Would you take it back?’ her mother checked.

‘Oh yes!’ Margaret acknowledged freely. ‘And do you know what I have come to realise? Even if he did propose out of a sense of duty, was that so wrong of him? He was willing to give up his happiness for me, he was prepared to do the right thing by me. What does that say about him?’

‘You tell me,’ Mrs Hale probed, hoping that her daughter could make sense of the pieces of the puzzle that lay scattered before her.

Margaret smiled wretchedly. ‘That he is the most self-sacrificing man I have ever met.’

Mrs Hale sighed. Sweet Margaret! – her pure heart could be so naive. It was incredible to think that Mr Thornton had stood before her, evidently madly in love with her, but Margaret in her endearing innocence had been unable to understand.

In many ways, Maria Hale was conflicted, her mind trying hopelessly to make sense of the turmoil it fostered. Part of her faithfully believed in the separate spheres of men and women, trusting that God had ordained that they should have divergent purposes and talents, ones which were distinctly isolated. This inevitably meant that young girls should be protected from the perverted depravities of worldly men until the day they themselves were released from the secure embrace of their family and into the arms of their husband. However, as she had grown older, Maria Hale had begun to feel that such a convention was perhaps rather biased and stilted. Why should the world be so prejudiced against women? Women may have generally been weaker than men physically, but surely, were women not as noble, reasonable, and astute in thought, feeling and deed as any man? Indeed, she often wondered if women were not more valuable, for they seemed to be unblinkered by the petty ambitions or motivations of greed, lust, and war. Women seemed to be gifted with a greater degree of shrewdness and sensitivity, so why was life so unjustly and unreasonably imbalanced in the promotion of male interests?

As for Margaret, she was a testimony to the triumph of female magnificence. But, alas, she was a woman and a young one at that. Yes, the traditional part of Mrs Hale still believed that men and women were different, and that maidens should not be acquainted in matters of the heart and the flesh before their proper time. Still, for all the entrenched teachings of her upbringing, a liberal flower still sprouted and blossomed in her breast, the seeds of free thinking overhauling her deep-rooted conservative principles.

As she observed her daughter, Mrs Hale was again struck by how discriminatory it all was, for here was a person who, due to her sex, had not been educated in the lessons of love, and now that Margaret had fallen in love, she was terribly lost. Perhaps if the world was more balanced in favour of both genders, then when Mr Thornton had asked for her hand, Margaret would have been in a better position to understand her heart and she would not have been subjected to the agony she now endured. But, for now, Mrs Hale had to accept that for her daughter, both life and love were unfair.

‘Yes, either he is extraordinarily selfless, my darling, or…or he really did want to marry you,’ her mother suggested sensitively.

Pushing herself off the wall, Margaret huffed. ‘You must stop saying that Mother! He does not wish me to be his wife, I am certain of it. It is false to pretend otherwise and unkind to him.’

Aware that she was getting nowhere with persuading Margaret of the sincerity of Mr Thornton’s feelings for her, Mrs Hale decided to try and urge the conversation along. ‘What was he like when you went to see him at the mill yesterday?’

Margaret grinned like a giddy schoolgirl. ‘Adorable.’

‘Excuse me?’ her mother blustered with astonishment, gobsmacked by Margaret’s unseemly response.

‘He was in such a state. He was dirty. He was muddled. He was grumpy. He choked on some bread. He could hardly get his words out; he made no sense. But he…he wanted to come. I am sure of it,’ Margaret recounted, her eyes glowing as she twirled her hair through her fingers, her body swaying distractedly as she daydreamed about a tousled Mr Thornton and his deliciously untamed appearance.

‘I do not doubt it,’ her mother retorted prissily.

Chewing her bottom lip, Margaret brooded: ‘Then there was last night. Last night was different. _He_ was different. I cannot explain it. I still do not understand what happened,’ she went on, her features growing dark.

‘Well Margaret, I can tell you what I observed. Perhaps as a third party I have more clarity.’

Mrs Hale’s fingers lazily stroked at her wedding band, her mind drifting back to the day her own dear husband had proposed to her, many, many moons ago. It had been on an unreliable Friday afternoon in midsummer. It had started off with the assurance of undisturbed sunshine, but unfortunately, come midday, the heavens had opened, and the rain had poured, and the sky had cracked its thunderous whip. After plucking up the courage to finally ask her to marry him, Richard Hale had ridden over to her home on horseback, only to find himself soaked to the bone. When he had arrived at the Beresford estate resembling a drowned rat, it had not been a promising start. Still, the meek scholar had forged ahead, and after a very incoherent introduction in which he had quoted several obsolete poets and philosophers, he had finally requested that she consent to be his wife. Maria Beresford had said yes instantly, then had laughed heartily at his incredulous face, for he had planned for a more pessimistic outcome. In fact, he had been so assured of the beautiful belle’s rejection, that he had not prepared anything to say in the event of her acceptance.

Darling Richard! He had been so gloriously hopeless with his overtures. Nonetheless, it left her wondering how it would have compared with Mr Thornton’s own hapless attempt at asking the woman he loved to join him at the altar, for her to become his partner in life. Indeed, that is what she felt sure a man such as he would desire, not a possession, as Margaret had inferred, but a partner to cherish. At least in Mr Hale’s case, he had been courting his lady, he was her proclaimed suitor, but for Mr Thornton, it must have felt like a blind stab in the dark. Mr Thornton may be a gentleman in the truest sense of the word, but somehow, Mrs Hale suspected that he lacked the natural grace and eloquence of both tongue and manner to render him capable of delivering a delicate proposal of marriage. Where he should have perhaps been subtle in his vows of love everlasting, he had probably been fervently impassioned. Even although Mrs Hale could admit that a heartfelt and masculine confession of affection may seem romantic to an old woman like her, with perspective, she could appreciate that her unworldly Margaret had most likely been startled by the earnest intimacy of his advances. Poor boy! – he really had not stood a chance.

Shaking herself from her reminiscences, Mrs Hale returned her attention to the here and now, and the couple who presently found themselves on the threshold of happiness, if only they would be brave enough to reach out and claim it, preferably together.

Margaret whirled round to look at her mother. The lady was regarding her with a gallingly patronising and pompous expression, worn only by people who feel superior through supposing they alone are enlightened by some great secret. In response, Margaret tilted her own chin imperiously and nodded, indicating that her mother should proceed.

‘Last night I witnessed two people who were drawn to each other, much like a moth is to a flame. I observed two individuals who are too obstinate and proud to admit their feelings for each other. From the moment Mr Thornton walked through the door, he was looking for you, Margaret. He seemed unsettled by the thought that you might not be attending, but when I said that you would be joining us shortly, his face lit up. In that moment he seemed less like an austere master and more like a soppy schoolboy awaiting his sweetheart, bless him. Then, when he saw you in that dress, I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head, he was so enamoured.’

She smirked at the way Margaret’s eyes flickered faintly, as if her curiosity had been nudged by this report.

Mrs Hale cleared her throat. ‘But I know what you mean, I saw it too, this distracted manner you speak of,’ she conceded reflectively. ‘He was desperate to convey something to you, but what, I cannot say. He was concerned about you, could you tell? When you spoke about the Boucher family, he was disturbed with worry – as was I, I might add! He wanted to spare you any distress.’

‘He is just kind,’ Margaret disputed, a little mystified as to why Mr Thornton should have been so bothered by it.

‘Perhaps. But I know the difference between duty and devotion. I am positive, that man was not just being polite, he was being protective. Say what you will, he cares about you. And I must say, I thank him for it,’ Mrs Hale nodded resolutely, not too proud to thank a Milton man for his benevolence to the Hale family.

‘Then all that nonsense with his hand,’ she tutted. ‘I do wonder how that happened. Did you not notice the way he regarded you while you tended to it? Utterly amorous. Quite the infatuated pup. I thought he was going to lift you up into his arms at one point…either that or kiss you! Ha! – even with your father and I in the room,’ she snorted wittily.

‘Mother, please’ Margaret blushed, a scarlet hue spreading across her reddened cheeks.

‘Really! ─ the way the two of you carried on!’ Mrs Hale hooted. ‘There were so many entertaining examples to draw inspiration from. Oh, the biscuits! I have never seen a man gorge so much! He shall soon be a podgy pig if you keep insisting on baking for him.’

‘That is no matter,’ Margaret muttered under her breath. ‘He has gotten too thin, he has not been eating,’ she fussed. ‘Let him gorge if it keeps him from becoming ill. I will cook for him myself if I must, and I will stand over him and force him to eat it if necessary. No, he’s not been eating,’ she fretted. ‘He works too hard.’

However, her mother was not listening. ‘Oh, and the flowers! They were so lovely, but did you notice the way he almost hit you in the face with them? Not very gallant, to be sure. The dear lamb!’ she chuckled, clapping her hands with glee, ignoring the way Margaret spun away in embarrassment.

‘And my word, did you see the scowl he had when I spoke of Henry? He did not like that at all. He was so cross when I blathered on about how supposedly wonderful Mr Lennox is. I am quite sure I could see the green-eyed monster lurking within those rather handsome eyes of his,’ she tittered. ‘Yes, it was a night to remember. You know, I think at times you both completely forgot there was anybody else present! You certainly did when I pretended to doze off.’

‘Mama!’ Margaret gasped, her mouth agape. Was there no limit to her mother’s duplicity? Margaret was appalled to think the wife of a parson could behave so sneakily, so wholly without scruples.

‘Oh well, an old chaperone’s trick,’ she shrugged, waving it off as no more than a practical joke filled with harmless mischief. ‘No, there was something about that conversation. You were both trying to tell each other something,’ she mused. ‘Now, what happened when you showed him out?’

It was at this point that Margaret suddenly went as white as a sheet. Her breath hitched and her knees began to sway as she stumbled backwards, her back hitting the wardrobe.

‘Margaret?’ her mother compelled, growing serious once more.

‘I─I slipped. I─I was in his arms.’

It was Mrs Hale’s turn to gasp. ‘Margaret! Heavens!’ she wheezed, clutching her chest. ‘What do you mean?’

Margaret scrunched up her eyes in the childish hope that if she could not see her mother’s disapproval, then it did not exist. ‘I tripped on the stairs and he caught me. It was an accident, I promise.’

‘I certainly hope he released you immediately!’ her mother cringed.

‘No, he did not. That is, he did not keep me there, like a prisoner,’ Margaret justified, determined that Mr Thornton would not be falsely portrayed as a lech, a man who preyed on women, for he was no such deviant. ‘He just…held me…and I made no attempt to leave.’

Mrs Hale spluttered. ‘Good gracious me!’

‘It felt…strange. I felt surprisingly safe. He was so close,’ Margaret whispered, hugging herself tightly. ‘I could feel every part of him against me. I wanted to stay there…forever.’

Mrs Hale grew lightheaded and fretted that she might faint. She most certainly hoped that Margaret had indeed not sensed _every_ part of him against her.

‘Heavens above! How has so much impropriety taken place under my nose?’ she spat, begging belief at the disgraceful truths she was learning of. Really! – if her illness did not kill her, then the shock of this scandal comprising of worker’s revolts, head injuries, half-dressed men in offices, and illicit embraces in stairwells might just do the trick!

‘We talked. We went downstairs and we _just_ talked,’ Margaret rushed on, keen to subdue her mother’s current bout of hysterics. ‘I do not know why, but I told him about Mr Whitehall and his family’s troubles. We argued, we always do, then he…he started saying something peculiar about not all men being like that. He seemed frantic, almost like it was imperative that I should understand him and believe him.’

Sinking against her pillows in an attempt to catch her breath, Mrs Hale interjected: ‘He was probably just trying to assure you that he would not be the sort of husband to abuse you. Maybe as a man with such an outwardly powerful and punitive persona, he wanted to reassure you that he would never mistreat you.’

Margaret cocked her head. ‘I cannot think why he should feel the need to say such a thing,’ she responded. ‘Of course I know that he could _never_ hurt me,’ she insisted. Nonetheless, she suddenly stilled, for she realised that he _had_ hurt her, he had hurt her sorely. ‘Well, he would not harm me like that,’ she amended. ‘He would never lay a finger on me, _never_.’

Mrs Hale pursed her lips as she pondered this. ‘Yes,’ she ruled. ‘For all Mr Thornton’s faults, I do believe you are right. I do not imagine he would be the sort of husband to be roughshod with his wife. He is not so unkind. No, I think he would treasure her, especially if he were in love with her,’ she tallied poignantly.

Thinking back on her midnight tryst with Mr Thornton, Margaret proffered a weak smile. ‘He is kind, is he not? He has been so generous to you with the fruit he procures. Then, I found out today that he has taken care of it, all of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nicholas. The Whitehalls. His mother,’ Margaret replied vaguely. ‘You may remember last night that father told him of Nicholas not having work and about the Boucher children. Mr Thornton has now gone and spoken to Nicholas in person and offered him employment, something which I imagine must have not been easy for him. And he has insisted on paying an annuity for the children, because he feels responsible for what happened to their parents.’

‘That was hardly his fault,’ her mother upheld.

‘No, it was not, but I think…I think he cannot endure to see children suffering because of the acts of their parents,’ Margaret contemplated, wondering to what extent his actions had been dictated by the horrors of the surviving scars inflicted in his own childhood. ‘And he has managed everything with the Whitehalls. He has spoken to the son, who I believe was struggling under the weight of his mounting financial burdens, what with their father being away. He has offered the young man a secure position, meaning that they are rescued. What is more, he has assured him that they need not fear about the father anymore, who I understand Mr Thornton has spoken to personally.’

Mrs Hale smiled softly, warmed by the Christian charity of this intricate man who she herself had once misjudged to be motivated by money alone. For all his machines and manufacturing, it seemed that Mr Thornton was propelled by something much less sterile and much more humane than mere materialism: a moral compass.

‘He seems to have gone to a lot of trouble,’ she agreed.

‘Yes,’ Margaret beamed. ‘But that is just like Mr Thornton. Assiduous. Determined. Generous. And then there was the note from his mother.’

‘His mother? What note?’

Margaret fished in the pocket of her skirt and mutely handed the missive over to her mother, who immediately took it, reading it rapidly.

Mrs Hale blinked back tears as her eyes scanned over the words. She was not sure what she felt at the thought of another woman caring for her child. Gratitude? Envy? ‘That is very kind of her,’ she conceded at last, wiping away the trickles of water that dribbled down her face.

‘It is not from her,’ Margaret whispered, as if in a trance. ‘It is from _him_.’

Mrs Hale swiftly examined the message again and frowned. ‘But it is signed─’

‘It is written by her. It is her words. But he has asked her to write it, I know he has. Even in his loathing for me, he cannot help but be unfailingly kind.’

Mrs Hale sighed and leaned forward to caress her daughter’s jaw. ‘That does not speak to me of a man who loathes you, Margaret. No, it is quite the opposite. That speaks to me of a man who lov─’ But she soon paused after seeing the flash of disapproval in Margaret’s eyes. ‘A man who cares deeply for you,’ she revised. ‘Darling, are you sure that he is not doing all of these things for _you_? You told him of them after all. He himself gains nothing from these acts. Consider for a moment that they might be in service of another. Someone he yearns to please.’

Margaret shook her head. ‘No. No, I am sure he is just being honourable,’ she insisted. ‘He is unfailingly compassionate. For instance, last night, when I asked him to keep coming here to see us, he assured me that he would without a second’s hesitation. I told him that father had missed him and that you…,’ Margaret halted, the words sticking in her throat.

‘That I what?’ her mother enquired; her eyebrows raised charily.

‘That you were ill,’ Margaret replied in a small voice. She could have bitten out her tongue. How could she be so tactless? Here she was wittering on about her own problems, carelessly disregarding her mother’s declining health. She was abominably selfish. It was unforgivable!

Mrs Hale gulped; her face ashen. ‘Ah, I see.’

Margaret hurried on with her story, anxious to finish it: ‘I told him that I needed his help. And he…he was so thoughtful. He promised that he would keep coming and he said that he would not see me suffer.’

‘Mr Thornton said _that_?’ her mother verified. She was not sure what surprised her the most today: the extent of Mr Thornton’s obvious regard for Margaret, or the extent of Margaret’s obliviousness in the face of his regard.

‘He was adamant,’ Margaret warranted. ‘But afterwards, it all changed,’ she said, her chest tightening painfully. ‘He suddenly became so incensed. I do not know what happened. We had been getting along so well. I went to fetch a book, Shakespeare’s sonnets, because we had been considering reading it together. We had been talking, laughing, then suddenly…he was furious…I was frightened.’

‘What did he say?’ Mrs Hale asked.

Margaret closed her eyes, and a blur of taunts assaulted her subconscious.

_“I shall continue to pay my respects to your parents. But as to our association, Miss Hale, it is meaningless.”_

‘I cannot recall,’ Margaret lied, her heart hammering against her ribs in torment over his harsh remarks. They wrung in her ears with merciless contempt and dismissal.

_“You were right all along. I never meant what I said that day. I only spoke to you because you had degraded yourself and I felt it was my unfortunate duty to save you.”_

‘Think dearest, please,’ her mother encouraged, troubled by the grim shadows that danced across her daughter’s pale face.

_“How relieved I was that you declined. Rest assured, that I will not be renewing my offer…I am looking to the future and it is one without you. You mean nothing to me! Nothing!’_

Margaret swallowed thickly. ‘He said…he said that I meant nothing to him,’ she confessed. It was then that her wobbly knees gave way under the weight of her physical and mental exhaustion, causing Margaret to flop into a nearby chair.

Her mother inhaled sharply. ‘Oh, Margaret!’

Dropping her head onto her knees, Margaret murmured: ‘He said that he had _never_ loved me and _never_ would.’

Mrs Hale’s mind flew into a tizzy. ‘Are you sure?’ she challenged, for something about this did not seem right.

‘Yes!’ Margaret wailed, baffled as to how her mother still doubted her. ‘He did not leave much opportunity for misinterpretation. He was explicit in his scorning!’ she disparaged. ‘He said that I had degraded myself. That he felt it to be his unfortunate duty to save me. That he was relieved I had said no. That he would not be renewing his offer.’ She felt her shoulders wilt under the burden of her intensifying humiliation. It was one thing for her to know how reviled she was, it was quite another for her mother to find out.

Mrs Hale was dumbstruck. ‘I cannot believe it,’ she breathed. ‘It does not sound like him…it does not sound like him at all,’ she judged.

‘You do not know him. Not like I do,’ Margaret claimed.

It was at this that the dying woman’s patience finally snapped like a twig. Mrs Hale bristled in her bed and fixed her daughter with a grave stare. ‘Then tell me, young lady, is that like him? Is that the kind of man he is?’ she interrogated. ‘Because if it is, then I seriously doubt you would be feeling this way. I think if he were such a callous bully; you would not be breaking your heart over him. He would not even be worth knowing. If he were such a monster to shout at a woman without good reason or a shred of regret, then you would not love him. So, I ask you Margaret Hale, is that him?’

‘No!’ Margaret shouted, her head flying up. ‘No, it is not him. That is not Mr Thornton. That is not my John!’ she championed.

The two women sat in silence for several minutes. If it were possible, one could almost have seen the dust of their frenzied emotions slowly drifting down and settling like a carpet of sand on the ground.

At long last, Mrs Hale abandoned her belligerent tone and replaced it with a much more sensitive one. ‘Margaret, my darling dove…anger…anger does not speak to me of indifference,’ she counselled. ‘It speaks to me of hurt…jealousy…grief, for after all, is hate not the closest emotion to love? Sometimes when people are hurting, they lash out and cannot help themselves. Did something happen to incite Mr Thornton’s outburst?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? Think, Margaret, think,’ Mrs Hale implored, shaking her daughter’s arm.

Margaret reflected for a period, searching her memory for any hint of an explanation. However, it was of no use, for she could uncover no pretext for his wrath, no motive for his outpouring of bile. One minute they had been happy, the next he had been hostile, there was no in-between. ‘No, there was nothing,’ she maintained sadly, almost wishing there had been, for it would make it all so much easier to understand, even accept.

Again, the ladies fell into a suffocating silence, both worn-out by their anguish. Mrs Hale felt besieged by guilt. Of course, it made sense now, Margaret’s insistence that Mr Thornton did not love her. If he had barked at her so brutally and told her without scope for interpretation that she meant nothing to him, then what else was the poor girl to believe? Still, there was something about all this that did not ring true. Firstly, Mr Thornton was too honourable a man to behave so viciously without cause, no matter what he thought or felt privately. Secondly, his words of apathy were one thing, but his actions last night and today spoke of a man who had devoted his heart and soul to making a woman happy, and a man did not do that if she meant nothing to him. Whatever Margaret said, Mr Thornton _did_ love her, and something _had_ happened to bring about his sudden eruption of emotion…but what?

Finally, after what felt like hours, Margaret mumbled: ‘I saw him today,’ her speech dull and distant.

Mrs Hale startled, her head darting up. ‘When? Where?’ 

‘In the town…with her.’

‘Her?’ Mrs Hale repeated.

Margaret nodded, her eyes glassy with the mist of fresh tears. ‘Miss Latimer.’

Mrs Hale was flabbergasted. ‘Did you speak to them?’

‘No,’ she sniffed. ‘He just stared at me. He did not even try to speak to me.’

Again, Mrs Hale mulled over this morsel of information, her perceptive mind analysing it from every conceivable angle. ‘Could you have been mistaken? Maybe he was just escorting her somewhere, such things are permitted and can be quite innocent.’

‘No, I was not mistaken,’ Margaret sustained. ‘At first, I thought it might be something like that, but Miss Latimer looked condescendingly smug, almost as if she knew how I felt and was mocking me for being so ridiculous. She was clearly secure in his affections. The way she held his arm, it is not the sort of thing mere acquaintances do, even in Milton.’

Mrs Hale heeded this. It seemed to her that Miss Latimer’s ruse was not the sort exercised by a self-assured lady, not one who was secure in the affections of a lover. No, it was more the type of cunning scheme that a minx would use to try and trap a beau and trick all other contenders for his attention into believing that he had been well and truly caught. Dear Margaret, she was above such things, so it was unlikely that she would have perceived Miss Latimer’s intentions, causing the poor lamb to doubt Mr Thornton’s.

‘She is so lovely. She is perfect for Mr Thornton, the ideal master’s wife,’ Margaret gibbered. ‘Pretty. Polite. Polished. Never speaks her mind. She would be a dutiful wife, one he would desire, one he would deserve,’ Margaret droned on, rattling off each and every one of Miss Latimer’s frivolous attributes.

Mrs Hale scoffed at this tarradiddle. ‘You make him sound very superficial,’ she pooh-poohed.

All the same, Margaret did not seem to hear her mother’s objection. ‘In fact, he would be silly not to marry her. She would wear the right dresses, play the piano impeccably, know what to say and when to be quiet, always agree with him, always applaud him, always admire him.’

‘I will remind you: _Men of sense do not want silly wives,’_ her mother disputed, rather offended that any child of hers would be campaigning for a woman with such inconsequential traits, for she had always encouraged her son and daughter to value those who offered substance opposed to shallowness.

‘It seems to me, my pet, that you are being rather unfair on Mr Thornton, that you are deciding for him who and what he wants,’ Mrs Hale complained. ‘You say you prize your independent mind? Well then, is he not entitled to the same right? Miss Latimer may be very qualified to be the wife of a Milton master, but that does not mean he wants her.’

‘Why shouldn’t he want her?’ Margaret asked with bewilderment, for surely, there was no person better suited to meeting his needs and expectations.

Even with all her love for John Thornton, even Margaret had to admit that her self-determining character was a poor substitution for Miss Latimer’s submissive one. Margaret was not ashamed of her individuality, not in the slightest, but she was not inexperienced enough to believe that it was what men favoured. For all their talk of love, at the end of the day, all men secretly long for a wife who simply bewitches his senses and satisfies his ego. When it comes to picking a bride, Margaret knew that beauty and breeding would always be at the forefront, and brains would always be disregarded as a secondary quality in the eyes of prospective husbands, perhaps even being condemned as a failure by some.

However, her mother had not exhausted her argument. ‘Because, my lass, contrary to popular belief, men too have feelings. I know that society likes to think that men are heartless, but they are not. Romantic literature, Austen, Brontë, Eliot, Gaskell, they have shown─’

‘They’re stories, they’re not real,’ Margaret cut in.

‘Maybe so, but stories reflect real life! And in real life, men _do_ fall in love. Conceivably, my girl, you need to be ready to admit that Mr Thornton has indeed fallen in love…with you.’ 

‘Why won’t you stop saying that?! It is not true!’ Margaret dissented, sick and tired of her mother’s relentless pursuit of this futile theory.

Her objection was so forceful that it was almost sialoquent, much to her mother’s aversion. Really! – love seemed to have an unfortunate tendency for making Margaret forget her manners.

‘I think it is true, young madam! Is it not plausible that Mr Thornton longs for more than a pretty companion who praises him? It could be that he wants to be challenged. He may crave the stimulation of a spirited wife. He may even hold such a lady in the highest regard. He may even admire and respect a woman like you for all your originality.’

Despite her mien of disinterest, Margaret hung onto her mother’s every word. For a while, she just stared at the wall in front of her, simply wondering. Finally, she gently collected up the gloves that lay on the bed. Cradling them firmly against her heart, she bowed her head and let it rest on her mother’s lap, almost like a child seeking the healing capability of the hallowed reassurance that only a mother’s love can provide. With a heavy soul, Mrs Hale lifted her hand and stroked Margaret’s hair soothingly.

‘It does not matter now,’ Margaret breathed at last.

Mrs Hale’s hand stilled. ‘Why?’ she questioned, unnerved by Margaret’s fatalistic tone.

‘Because of the letter.’

‘What letter? The one from his mother?’ Mrs Hale sought to establish.

‘No, the one I made father write to him today.’

‘Goodness me, there seems to be an extraordinary amount of correspondence going about at present,’ Mrs Hale flapped. ‘What letter was this? What did it say?’

Margaret elevated her head, her eyes inflamed. ‘I suggested to papa that Mr Thornton may prefer to have his lessons in his own home. That way he would not be encumbered by coming back and forth to Crampton, not when he is so occupied by the pressures of trade, not when he has been missing lessons due to his demanding schedule.’

Oh dear! Mrs Hale clicked her teeth. ‘And what did your father say?’

‘He was only too eager to oblige. He is not aware that Mr Thornton has stopped coming to his tutorials because of me, so he believed me when I insisted that it was due to the hectic requirements of his work. Father was more than willing to be of service to his friend. Anything to enable Mr Thornton to continue with his studies.’

‘I can well imagine,’ Mrs Hale huffed, frustrated that her daughter’s chances at a happy marriage were being thwarted by her insensible father. Honestly! Richard Hale may have been an astute academic, but when it came to people and their feelings, he was as useless as a toffee teapot.

‘But _why_? Why did you ask him to write such a note? If you love Mr Thornton, then why would you send him away?’ Mrs Hale probed.

Margaret buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Mama!’ she sobbed. ‘I could not bear it. I could not suffer it a minute longer. I will surely die if I keep seeing him. I want to see him every day! I want to see him all the time! If I had my way, we would never be parted. But I cannot keep seeing him and loving him, all the while knowing that he does not love me ─ worse, that he despises me. It is too much! It does not matter anyhow. The letter is long gone. He will most likely have read it by now, it is too late to take it back.’

Then, with a bleat, she concluded: ‘I know I am not good enough for him.’

Mrs Hale shook her head in sheer disbelief. ‘What makes you say such a thing?’ she asked. ‘Darling, this is so unlike you. You are confident and capable; you are always so sure of yourself. You are my anchor. As your mother, I marvel at you, I always have. I know you to be secure in all that you are and all that you do. I cannot understand this sudden lack of faith in yourself,’ she fretted.

Margaret squeezed the black-leather gloves that she kept close to her breast, her fingers rubbing comfortingly at the sheep-skin lining, imagining his thick wrist and fingers nestled there. If Margaret concentrated, she could smell it, the strange fragrance wafting up her nostrils. She could smell soap, and smoke, and soot. She could smell _him_.

‘Perhaps I was like that before, but not now,’ she determined. ‘Since coming to Milton I have learned how sheltered I was. How judgemental. How arrogant. Always thinking I knew best. I misjudged him. I underestimated him. I wilfully wronged him. He may have his faults, for it is foolish to presume anyone is perfect, such idolatry is destructive. But despite his flaws, he is still the very best of men.’

Taking her daughter’s face in her hands, Mrs Hale rested their foreheads together. She smiled as she gazed into her girl’s eyes and saw her own cloudy blue-green orbs mirrored in Margaret’s, a reminder that this wonderful young woman was her flesh and blood. It filled her with a pride like no other.

‘Margaret,’ she began gently. ‘My dearest Margaret, I want you to listen to me. You are more worthy than you will ever know, and do not let anyone ever tell you otherwise, especially _you_. You are clever. You are beautiful. You are compassionate. You are fearless. You are an inspiration. I…I often wish I were more like you,’ her mother admitted shyly.

Margaret blinked. ‘Truly?’

‘More than you realise,’ her mother reinforced. ‘Margaret, I am _so_ proud of you.’

Mrs Hale felt the hot sting of tears dampen the merging of skin that now melded them together. But in truth, she no longer knew who the tears belonged to, and actually, it did not matter.

‘Even after all I have told you?’ Margaret snivelled.

‘More so than ever,’ Mrs Hale chuckled. ‘Darling, you are passionate. You feel and think deeply. And my precious one, you have no need for atonement. No, all you are guilty of is falling in love. You did not understand your heart and so, in your confusion, you broke his. You are not the first girl to do so, and I dare say, you will not be the last. But I am so very proud of my daughter, and I think Mr Thornton is the most blessed man in the world to have won your affections.’

At this, Margaret gripped at her heart. ‘It hurts!’ she howled. ‘Oh Mother, it hurts! Is it supposed to hurt this much?’ she stuttered and sobbed.

‘Shh, shh! It is alright, my darling, it is alright!’ Mrs Hale cried, pulling her child close and clasping her against her shoulder, gently rocking her back and forth.

After a while, Mrs Hale whispered into her daughter’s hair: ‘Margaret, my child, I need to ask you something. We have talked for so long today and we are both tired, so I do not require a lengthy answer. I just need to know the truth. Tell me, even now, even after all that has passed between you and Mr Thornton, after all the pain and the punishment you have both inflicted, do you still love him?’

‘Yes,’ Margaret replied against her mother’s shoulder.

‘I see. And after all of this, is he the man your spirit champions? Is he the partner your soul respects? Is he the husband your heart yearns for?

‘Yes.’

‘And can you reconcile yourself to a life here? A life in this foreign place with its curious people? Could you really live here for the rest of your days and be happy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then, my little one, that is all I need to know,’ her mother soothed, her hand caressing pacifying circles on Margaret’s back.

‘But what will you do? You are not going to tell papa, are you?’ Margaret suddenly asked, her panic plain.

‘No, no, my poppet. I will not do anything to distress you further, I promise you that much,’ she vowed.

‘And you will not speak with Mr Thornton? You will not try to make him marry me? Oh please, say you won’t! I could not stand it!’ Margaret blubbed.

Mrs Hale was quiet for a minute and pondered her response. Selecting her words carefully, she replied: ‘No, Margaret, I will not _make_ him marry you.’

Lifting her daughter’s head, Mrs Hale patted her angelic face, one made all the more beautiful by the raw integrity of feeling that she had shown today. ‘Margaret, dearest, please do not cry so. Go to bed, go to sleep. I assure you; things will look better tomorrow, I promise,’ she vowed. ‘Go to bed, Margaret.’

Slowly rising to her feet, Margaret straightened the rumples on her skirt and with a weary voice, she sighed: ‘Yes, Mama.’ With that, the heartbroken Miss Hale listlessly walked away, quietly closing the door behind her. Mrs Hale did not fail to notice that in her daze, Margaret had picked up the gloves and taken them with her, the masculine garments enveloped in her own petite and feminine hands, the black material contrasting with her white skin.

Left alone, Mrs Hale wilted against her cushions and let slip from her lips the most worn out sigh she had ever expelled. She lay there for some time in deep contemplation.

‘He _does_ love her,’ Mrs Hale whispered. ‘I know he does.’

She was sure of it, Mr Thornton loved Margaret. He adored her. He worshipped her. He thought of her day and night. She was certain he was thinking of her even now, probably devastated over the letter that had asked him to stay away from Crampton, from Margaret.

It seemed that Mr Thornton and Margaret had confessed their feelings for each other time and time again, both in private and in public. They had disclosed it in a thousand ways. They possibly had not even known it, for they were as simple as children in these matters. It appeared that they could declare their devotion in words, shouting it to the heavens, yet they still faced the woeful misfortune of persistently misunderstanding each other. 

Smiling, she recited her favourite author: _“Seldom, very seldom does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not.”_

So, what was to be done?

At long last, Mrs Hale had an idea. Sitting up abruptly, she rang her bell for Dixon. Snatching up a pen and paper, she began to scribble hurriedly on the piece of parchment, her hand scratching as swiftly as it could.

It was too late to put the lid on Pandora’s box, for all the mayhem, the disorder, the anarchic pandemonium of its secrets had been unleashed, and there was no choice left but to deal with the consequences, no matter how chaotic they may seem.

No, she would not _make_ them marry, for such a course of action would be counterproductive and would insult and injure them both. However, Mrs Hale was grateful that Margaret had not picked up on the fact that her mother had not promised she would not speak with Mr Thornton. And by Heaven! – she would speak to him!

Finally, when Dixon arrived, Mrs Hale proffered a purposeful arm and shoved a dispatch into the servant’s grasp.

‘Quick, Dixon!’ she instructed. ‘Quick! See that this is delivered at once!’ she ordered, her finger pointing towards the door dramatically.

As Dixon ambled out of the room, she glanced down at the words that had been speedily scrawled on the envelope, the ink barely dry:

_For the attention of Mr Thornton_

_Marlborough Mills_

_ Urgent _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! What a length of a chapter. It was like a therapy session. But I’m glad they both got to get it all out, phew! There are some lines in here that I love, and I hope you found ones you loved too. 😊 Do let me know if you found any that stood out for you.


	21. EVERY HEART SINGS A SONG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Firstly, thank you so very much to everyone who left not only kind comments, but constructive comments on the previous chapter. It was very thoughtful and also a lovely return for all the hard work. I promise that we are nearing the end of the angst.
> 
> Okay, so a quick note about this chapter. This one kind of came out of nowhere and took me by surprise. It is not necessary for the plot, but I felt it was relevant to understanding John and how I see some of his significant past experiences shaping his strong character in the present. Anyway, please note that this chapter has some dark themes regarding sex and exploitation, which some readers may find distressing. It also has some unpleasant language related to derogatory sexual comments and sexual exploitation. If anybody has any concerns over this chapter after reading it, I’ve added a bit at the end to try and clarify my rationale.

This is in the start of chapter notes, but I just wanted to make sure nobody missed it: Please note that this chapter has some dark themes regarding sex and exploitation, which some readers may find distressing. It also has some unpleasant language related to derogatory sexual comments. If anybody has any concerns over this chapter after reading it, I’ve added a bit at the end to try and clarify my rationale.

* * *

CHAPTER 21:

EVERY HEART SINGS A SONG

John sat in his study, shrouded in a cloak of darkness. The depressing atmosphere matched his mood, as the master wallowed in a den of hopelessness.

There was no fire in the room, making it bitterly cold, and he watched as his breath drifted from his throat and floated into the air like a wisp of mist. It curled like a smoky snake and then vanished, leaving John alone once more, reinforcing his loneliness, since it seemed even his breath wanted to flee from him. There were only a handful of perishing candles that burnt with pitiful blinks, as they dwindled down to their stubs, spluttering before they were snuffed out once and for all. They threw his angular features into an erratic flickering of silhouettes that danced on the walls, snatching his gloomy mien and his similarly grave temperament in and out of fitful obscurity.

John seized the decanter of brandy and throwing his head back, he took a generous swig, the liquid warming his mouth and sleekly tumbling down his gullet. John glared at the floor, which now contained a heap of crumpled parchment, each one a slapdash attempt to write to Margaret and tell her…Oh! – God only knows!

As soon as he had read that ruinous letter, a distraught John had instantly retreated to his study to brood in seclusion. However, on closing the door, his defiant spirit had rallied, and he had decided that he would not be defeated but would rescue the situation by replying to her without delay. Nevertheless, for the life of him, he could not make up his mind about what to say. His thoughts dashed between penance and petulance, his muddled mind much like a clock pendulum, swinging endlessly between two polar extremes.

Half of him was willing to beg for her forgiveness and friendship, offering to do anything, if only she would just talk to him. However, the other half of him, the less gracious part, plummeted into a sulky tantrum in which he vowed to never stop loving her until his dying breath, no matter what she said about it. During his more cantankerous interludes, the temper in John had persuaded him to write a number of irrational notes, in which he vowed that he would come to Crampton at once and bang on the door until she agreed to see him. He even degraded himself to the infantile threat of taking up residence on her doorstep like some sort of troublesome vagrant, insisting that he would not budge until she had heard him out. Margaret could object to his devotion all she liked, but he would persist in his devout loyalty to her, for John was as obstinate a fellow as ever lived.

He had penned many excruciatingly humiliating efforts, each as ludicrous as the last, the absurdity of them probably made worse by the copious amount of alcohol he had quaffed, all of which languished in his resentful stomach, which now growled at him for this uncharacteristic maltreatment. John hardly ever consumed drink, and when he did, it was always with moderation, for he was no soak. Again, whenever he did indulge in the pastime, he found that his robust bulk could cope with the spirits, meaning that he never grew punch-drunk as other men did, their heads becoming senseless one night and then sore the next morn with a splitting headache. All the same, tonight, John had gulped down more measures than he could count, and he was finding that he was fast descending down the slippery slope of intoxication. He had started off as stone cold sober, then had become tipsy, and now, well, he may have regrettably come to be three, (if not four), sheets to the wind. As far as John fathomed, brandy was supposed to fortify a man, it was not supposed to ignite an insatiable fire in his belly.

Frowning at his stack of appallingly atrocious love letters, John tried to remember exactly what he had written. Hell’s bells! Romance was damned hard! John scoffed at himself. Where love was meant to make a man a poet, it had turned John Thornton into a blundering twit who could hardly string two words together, let alone a declaration of everlasting love. Why could relations with Margaret not be as simple as those with his investors, suppliers, bankers, and customers? He would sit Margaret down with an array of facts and figures and present her with the blunt verities of the matter in his typically calm and calculated manner. He would love her like no other man ever would. He would respect her like no other man ever would. He would defer to her like no other man ever would. He would give her freedoms like no other man ever would. He would worship her like no other man ever would. Damn it! He was sure that he would make love to her like no other man ever would. But still, John scowled in the knowledge that even with these stripped statistics and specifics, his sorry heart would still not be good enough for Margaret Hale. She was a saint, and he was a sinner.

‘John, you are the most worthless bastard!’ he had griped, his glum expression enough to sour the sweetest of dispositions.

Picking up a few of his abandoned endeavours, he sifted through them, looking to see if any would do. Unfortunately, on closer inspection, he was dismayed to find that they were worse than he recollected. He had composed several earnest versions, each one begging her to reconsider her banishment and allow him to keep coming to Crampton, even if just as her father’s pupil. Then again, there had been an equal quantity of ill-tempered editions, with him gruffly demanding that she retract her decree of expulsion, her verdict to exile him from both her home and heart. Some missives had been rather reasonable, some even allowing him to retain a degree of decorum and self-respect, whereas others had been much more histrionic and were a wretched cry for help, a plea of pathetic desperation. The prideful man in John could not stand that, so those ones had been rejected almost at once and flung into the fire where they belonged, all evidence of his idiotic ramblings destroyed.

Yes, each attempt at pouring out his heart to her had been more embarrassing than the last. In the end, the sullen master had swiftly snatched up each effort, crumpled it into a ball, and catapulted it against the wall in a strop. It was now as John grimaced at the pile of scrunched pieces of paper that cluttered his floor, much like the mass of hailstones that were scattered across the ground outside, that he rubbed his head and sighed in defeat.

John glanced at the book that rested on his desk. Plato. Her father’s tome. With tender hands, he stroked the cover, a single tear spilling from his misty eyes. What was the point? Turning to look at his bookshelves, John stared at them blankly, unsure of whether he could still draw inspiration from their words of wisdom. He had always revered learning and books had been his comfort for as long as he could remember. A solace from his shyness, a solace from his father’s unpredictable behaviour, a solace from his father’s suicide, and a solace from a life laden with struggle. He had an intense yearning to better himself, to expand his knowledge and become a truly intelligent fellow, one who was quick-witted both academically and practically. But now, what did any of it matter? What was the use in trying to mature his mind in order to become a more sensible, sensitive and sincere man, if it was not to be worthy of her?

Despite his genuine regard for his teacher, John could honestly say that he no longer cared about his lessons with Mr Hale, as studying had long ceased to be his primary purpose for attending that unpretentious house. He was no longer stimulated by scholars or bards, for the only thing that inspired him was the humble thought of seeing her. It was not until John had received that letter that he had realised that his weekly visits to Crampton had become the cornerstone of his existence. Unlike other men, he was not motivated or dictated by a Monday morning hard at work, a Friday evening drinking in a tavern, a Saturday night frequenting a whorehouse, or a Sunday afternoon piously praying in church. No, for John, his week revolved around Thursday, the day he could be with Margaret. But now, well now she had denied him that sacred ritual, privilege and joy, and now John felt like he had nothing worth waking up for.

After taking another substantial swig of brandy, John once again collected up his pen and began to scribble feverishly, hoping that this time, the words would bleed from him more openly, carrying with them the truth that ran through his veins, the longings of his heart.

_My Dear…_

He paused and considered how to address her, then judged that it was best to be honest, for was he now not feeling sorry for himself because he had frightened her with his outburst of dishonesty?

_My Dearest Margaret,_

_I am a man of few words and I think you know by now that I lack the silver-tongue of a poet, for God encumbered me with a straight-talking one. It has meant that I am not nearly eloquent enough to adequately express what you mean to me and the agony I now harbour in my wretched heart for fear that I have hurt you and lost your good opinion forever._

_Margaret, I love you._

_I am sorry if such declarations offend or distress you, but I claim the humble right to lay my love at your feet, surrendering it to your guardianship. I have loved you for so long and I am only sorry that I did not reveal my sincere respect and affection for you sooner. I should have told you and I should have shown you in every way that befits a gentleman, in every way that you deserve._

_I know now that the timing of my request for your hand in marriage was unfortunate at best and insensitive at worst, and I truly apologise for that. My testimony of adoration for you was and remains genuine, but it was delivered with austerity and a shameful lack of consideration. I see now that my sudden proposal must have appeared false and born of no more than duty, but it is not true, far from it. I wanted you to be my wife long before that. If you do not believe me, I do not blame you, for I had given you no indication of my intentions towards you, but I swear that it is the truth. I even acquired you a ring before the riot, which, I hope conveys the integrity of my regard for you before that fateful day. I do confess that the riot did serve to reinforce my passion for you, because when I saw you lying on the ground, the depth of my feeling was intensified as my heart wrung with worry that I had lost you. Never in my whole life have I been so scared, for I could not bear the idea of a life without you, my beloved Margaret._

_I am sorry that I have behaved so hardheartedly since that day. I will concede that I was rendered inconsolable by your refusal of me. I knew that I was not good enough for you, but I still clung to a stubborn hope that you somehow cared for me, and I prayed that you would consent to be my bride, my wife, my all. I had never asked God for anything before, but after the riot I prayed two things, one was that you would live, and two, was that you would wish to be mine. However, I was distressed to learn that not only did you not love me, but that you did not even like me, that you thought of me as ungentlemanly. But I should not have been distant with you after that, for love is not shaken by tempests, but in contrast, is persistent and patient in the face of trials. I should have taken it as an opportunity to prove the constancy of my devotion for you. Consequently, I am humiliated to admit that I was a coward and behaved like a beast, as a veil of indifference and resentment was the only way I could think to hide my overwhelming pain at being denied the honour of securing your love and calling you my own dear wife._

_Then, there was what transpired last night. Margaret, my darling, I need you to believe me when I say that none of those vile things were true. They were all monstrous lies. You see, I saw the letter. I saw the one you had written to Henry Lennox. As I read your words of unreserved love for him, my spirit ruptured and I felt the final fragments of hope splinter in my soul. I am ashamed to say that I wanted to injure you and for that, I will always despise myself. I wanted you to understand the hurt that I hid in my heart and I could not help myself from trying to break yours like you had broken mine. But my sweet one, none of it was true. You do not mean nothing to me, God no! ─ you mean everything to me, more than any woman has ever meant anything to a man. I did not propose out of a sense of obligation, no, I stand by what I asserted that day, that I could not care less about what others said. In my eyes, your reputation was and is still beyond reproach and I had no need to rescue it. I was not relieved that you said no, as I do not think a man has ever been more devastated by the rejection of a woman. I said that I was looking to a future without you because in my grief, I was warning myself of the lonely and loveless future I was now condemned to struggle through without you by my side as my saving grace. I should never have shouted at you. I should never have lied to you. I was simply a broken man, one who had lost everything that he treasured, and I did not accept it with the dignity that I should have. It was indefensible. I know I scared you, my gentle Margaret, and for that, I will never forgive myself._

_Margaret, I know I have behaved abominably, but please, my love, please, do not send me away. I cannot bear to be parted from you so completely. That division would devastate me, and I do not believe I would ever recover. Seeing you is as vital to me as breathing and without you, I fear I would either perish, or become a hollow shell of a man, one who is numb for want of your warmth and sunlight. I understand that you do not want me and that you love another. It is alright, my darling, I am glad for you, truly, for nothing matters more to me than trusting that you are happy. I only hope that he is worthy of you and that he knows how blessed he is to have won your love. I know that soon he will take you away and that you will establish your own home with him as his bride, but for now, do not snatch away what few weeks or months I may have with you before he takes you from me forever. I want him to spend every day of the rest of your lives together showing you and telling you how much you mean to him. I expect no less of him than to commit his every waking moment to making you feel safe, appreciated, and cherished._

_I know you do not want me for your husband, but please, Margaret, do not reject me as your friend. I beg you, do not dismiss me, for as much as you do not need me, I need you. If we will not be wed, then I ask that you let me dedicate my pitiful self to the humble pursuit of serving you in any way I can, for your happiness matters more to me than any worldly or heavenly prize or possession. Please Margaret, please, let me love you._

_In the words of Plato: Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back._

_I am yours and yours alone._

_Your faithful friend and servant,_

_John Thornton_

As soon as John had finished the letter, he slouched back in his chair, closed his eyes, and groaned.

He _could not_ send it.

He _would not_ send it.

He _should not_ send it.

She _would not_ welcome it.

It was a self-indulgent outpouring of his soul and as much as John desired for her to know every single syllable of it, he would not subject her to any more anguish on account of him. What was more, it was obscene. It may have been the truest thing that had ever spilt from his heart, but it was indecent all the same. It was not the sort of letter a young, beautiful, unmarried maiden such as Margaret should receive from a man. Mr Hale might have been a timid sort of creature, but if he were to find this indelicate declaration to his daughter, then he would likely never speak to John again. Indeed, if he were a father himself and his daughter received such a sentimental statement, then John would have the rogue horsewhipped for his audacity.

Then again, if Margaret had a lover, what would the gentleman think of John’s blatant avowals? He had only met Lennox once, but he could tell even then that the cad thought of Margaret possessively, so he would be furious to find that John had interfered with someone he considered his property. John felt his eyes narrow indignantly at the idea of a man thinking about her and treating her in such an overbearing way. She was no object to be manipulated, no, she was a glorious woman who would be stifled and would suffocate without her independent nature, the very spirit born of courage and liberty that made John love her so fiercely. However, it was of no consequence what John thought, for as much as he loathed Lennox, Margaret had chosen him, and John would not make her life more arduous by inciting ire in the man she cared for.

No, he would not send it.

He would not subject her to any more of his raw passion or pain.

However, there was more on his mind than writing letters. John’s face furrowed into a savage scowl as he shuddered at the memory of the foul remarks that had been spat at him this very day. They had rung in his ears and fuelled his current despondency, this desperate need he had to persuade Margaret that he was no villain.

_‘You think you are better than me, Thornton? Aye?! I know all about you, you’re scum. I know about your father; I know about your violent temper. Think you’re better than me? You’re no more than filth, just like me!’_ Old Mr Whitehall had jeered.

John glared at the candle as it trembled before him, as if it instinctively knew that his blistering temper was burning deep beneath the surface.

John had bristled at the insolent slurs Mr Whitehall had hissed, but he could ignore them, for even though they stung, he was accustomed to turning the other cheek when it came to ignorant scoundrels slurring his family name. But…but John _could not_ and _would not_ stay silent when the blackguard’s venomous tongue began to abuse _her_.

John had said his piece, cautioning Mr Whitehall in the gravest of tones that he was to stay well clear of his unhappy family, that he was not to trouble them again, or else John would see that he faced the full penalty of the law. The drunk had proceeded to hurl inebriated insults his way, but John had let them slide off him like water off a duck’s back, for he knew he did not need to concern himself with the slights of such a contemptible parasite. But then, as he had made to leave, the old man let out a hideous cackle and John’s blood instantly ran to ice, for there was something altogether sinister about his sneer.

_‘I’ve seen you Thornton. I’ve seen you with her, that tempting tottie, Missy Hale. Looking at her, wanting her…I bet you imagine what she looks like with her clothes off…don’t you?’_

John had heard this, and then halted, utterly paralysed, his back to Mr Whitehall. He had been unable to react, unable to speak in defence of either himself or her.

_‘How dare you!’_ he bit out at last, his back still hunched, the words escaping him like the snarl of a vicious wolf. With his eyes flashing with a dark and dangerous rage, he had slowly veered, his large body stretched to his full height, his fists autonomously flexing at his side.

Mr Whitehall grinned, a wild and wicked sort of grimace, for John’s show of gallantry and wrath only seemed to encourage the crook. The truth was, that he hated the likes of John Thornton. Jethro Whitehall had once been a gentleman himself, a man of comfortable means and a pillar of the community. Yet, after the death of his mistress, he had succumbed to the temptation of drink, and had seen every last scrap of his dignity shrink away little by little, year by year, until there was nothing left to show for himself other than a life of petty crime and a string of prison sentences. Now, he was nothing, he was nobody, and grapple as he might, he could not drag himself out of his pit of degradation. But there was nothing he resented more than a man who had managed to haul himself out from the squalor of poverty and now sat on a throne of prosperity. And, for him, John Thornton was the epitome of such a man. So, with nothing left to lose, the old slyboots decided to hit Thornton where it hurt the most.

_‘Oh-ho-ho!’_ he had chuckled. _‘I’ve hit a nerve there, haven’t I? Don’t tell me you like her, Thornton? Don’t tell me a brute like you has genuine feelings for a woman?’_

_‘That’s enough!’_ John had demanded, his face white, his voice gravelly, his legs unsteady.

_‘I don’t blame you for imagining her naked; I’d think many men have. I bet you relieve yourself at the thought of bedding her forcefully, ramming her with every throbbing inch of you.’_

_‘Don’t you dare!’_ John cried as he lurched forwards, his head shaking uncontrollably in disbelief.

_‘Want her to be your property, do you? Nah! -You’ll never have her! You might be the great man around here, but you’re a thug, you’ll never be good enough for the likes of her.’_

_‘Stop! Now!’_ John had stuttered, his shocked tenor more of a plea than a mandate.

Mr Whitehall was enjoying his capacity to assert control over an arrogant ass like Thornton. He leered grotesquely, his gums accommodating a row of yellow and rotting teeth. _‘So, you better own her tight arse while you can, you dog.’_

At this, John felt his restraint buckle and before he knew what he was about, he had lunged towards Mr Whitehall. Looming over the despicable felon, John had grabbed the man by the coat and there was a simmering hostility in the atmosphere as the magistrate quivered from head-to-toe with anger.

_‘Don’t you ever speak about her like ─’_

_‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’_ Mr Whitehall had heckled, a nasty glint in his bloodshot eye.

_‘You may pretend to be the gentleman, Thornton, but I’ve seen you with her,’_ he whispered, his tone suggesting that he was betraying a menacing secret. _‘I’ve seen the way you look at her. You want her, don’t you?’_

John had been knocked for six. He was rendered motionless, he just stood there, shivering in his boots.

_‘See,’_ the old man said sagely _. ‘You can’t even deny it. You want her, I know you do. It’s alright, it’s only natural, lad. She’s a pretty little thing. I saw her that night, you know. That night after your elegant party. Fuck! – she was tempting, wasn’t she? Her tits so teasingly accessible for all eyes to feast on. She was ripe for the plucking,’_ he sniggered, licking his lips.

John swallowed thickly, his throat constricting. _‘Don’t ─ don’t talk about her like that!’_ he asserted. There was something strange about the way he spoke. He was quiet, eerily so, but the ferocity in his voice was unmistakable, making it all the more unnerving.

Nevertheless, as he saw John’s jaw tighten, Mr Whitehall felt a surge of evil triumph in his breast.

_‘You’ve done well getting your feet settled under that table. That old pa of hers, he’s a half-wit, the bumbling fool. You could easily take her, you know…easily. A big fellow like you, you could trap her in a dark corner─’_

_‘Stop!’_

_‘You could take down your trousers ─’_

_‘I said stop!’_

_‘You could grope her tremendous tits!’_

_‘I won’t listen!’_

_‘You could shunt your fist right up her tight, wet pu─’_

John caught Mr Whitehall by the collar, but his hand slipped with the sweat that ran down his palm, and he grasped the man’s throat instead, his nails digging in like claws. _‘Say one more word, and I’ll kill you!’_

The truth was Mr Whitehall was petrified. He knew what a man like Thornton could do with just one blow, for a brute like him had more power in his toe than Mr Whitehall had in his whole body. But the idea of cutting and humiliating Thornton in any small way felt like a victory. How sweet it would be to taste the swill of his own blood in his mouth, knowing that a magistrate had caused it. Perhaps Thornton would not be punished by the law, but the self-righteous prick’s feeling of integrity and justice would suffer, and that was retribution enough. And so, even with the prospect of being pummelled to a pulp, Mr Whitehall grinned a most repulsive grin, and continued to mock him, his voice sickly with lechery.

_‘I hear she’s got a saucebox of a mouth. Well, easy way to fix that, Thornton. you could shove that bitch to her knees─’_

_‘Say one more word and I’ll tear your tongue out!’_

_‘…grasp her by the hair, and force her to swallow every last inch of your hard coc─’_

_‘ENOUGH!’_ John bellowed; the force of his shout so thunderous that he could swear he felt the foundations of the prison quake.

Mr Whitehall’s eyes shone with something indistinguishable, but it was the ugliest and most disturbing look John had ever seen in all his thirty years, causing his knees to wobble. The inmate cleared his throat and readied himself to deliver his final and fatal blow.

_‘You know what, Thornton? I think I might just try and sample the delights of her flesh for myself some time. What do you think?’_ he had chuckled casually. He watched with amusement as John staggered backwards, his eyes wide with horror.

_‘Virgins are the most luscious after all. I could sneak into the house, creep into her bedroom, slither into her bed. If I clamped my hand over her mouth, nobody would hear her scr─’_

However, he was unable to finish, as in that moment, John finally cracked, his anger erupting with astounding fury.

In an instant, John had thrust his hand over Mr Whitehall’s mouth in an attempt to silence his unspeakable threats. As the old man gagged for breath, John pressed down harder, and Mr Whitehall nearly believed that the Justice of the Peace meant to smother and murder him there and then. He wished he would. It would be worth it. If he could destroy Thornton, it would give some meaning to the end of his miserable life.

But no, John let go. He hauled Mr Whitehall to his feet and lifting his arm into the air, John retracted it, tensed it, and readied it for a forceful blow, one that would knock the villain’s block off. The prisoner squeezed his eyes shut, ready for the attack of knuckles against bone. He knew what a tyrant like John Thornton could do with just one lethal strike, he could crush a man’s jaw, smash a man’s teeth, and fracture a man’s nose. But, just as John was about to release his fearsome punch, his fist stilled. It just stayed there, rigid, quivering in the fetid prison air.

He could not do it.

John was not a habitually violent man, but he had been in more than one brawl in his time, for his build and brawn made it easy for him to defeat others with minimum effort. Then, matched with a ferocious temper, his muscular force had landed him in a fair fight or two over the years, maybe not so much now, but certainly in his youth. He knew that once the beatings started, then a man could readily raise his fist for all manner of sordid and senseless provocations, using his defenceless victim as a release for his rage. Yes, he was not proud of it, but John was no stranger to sparring, his clout and speed making him an intimidating boxer.

Still, as he stood there, his fists raised in defence of the woman he loved, he found that he could not go through with it. In that instant, all his anger, all his aggression, all his aspiration vanished, and the red mist cleared, and all he could see was the distress in her sweet face. Margaret, darling Margaret, she would be so disappointed in him. In his mind’s eye, it was as if she, his angel, had glided to his side and had taken all his vehemence away. With her usual grace, she had gently placed her hand over his and slowly but surely, she had tenderly unclenched each of his fingers in turn, until his fist was no more.

Lowering his hand gradually, John swayed backwards, his arm hiding behind his back to keep it out of the way. It was in that moment that John knew that he would never lay a harsh finger on another person ever again. His honour and more importantly, his respect and reverence for her would simply never allow it. Her approval and admiration meant more to him than anything, so, he would not even contemplate jeopardising it by harming another soul. And, true to his word, John never did again, not once.

Mr Whitehall was confused, but in his relief at being spared a thrashing, he soon rallied. _‘What’s wrong, Thornton? Not got it in you? I thought you were tougher than that, man!’_

John stood opposite his adversary; his shoulders squared; his face twisted by revulsion. But this time, instead of his voice betraying any sign of weakness, his words reverberated from his gut, resounding with the commanding roar of a lion.

_‘You listen to me, you louse. Say what you will about me, but you will never speak of her like that again, do you hear? Never! And if I find out you have so much as glanced in Miss Hale’s direction again; I will see you hanged! Touch her, hurt her, frighten her, and you will have me to answer to.’_ His sharp eyes glinting, John had affixed: _‘If you do anything to her, I will personally tie that noose around your neck, are we clear?’_

Gathering up his hat and coat, John had sought to swiftly quit this lair of malevolence.

_‘They won’t hang me for violating her! Nobody will care!’_ Mr Whitehall had called out to John’s retreating form with a hoarse laugh.

John turned one last time and glared at him; his look so fearsome that Mr Whitehall had soiled himself. Staring him right in the eyes, John had said in a steady and ruthless tone: _‘Maybe not. But if you hurt so much as a hair on her head, I will bring the stool and rope and hang you myself. That, Sir, is no threat, it is a promise! Consider it my solemn oath as a magistrate and as a man of honour.’_

With that, the master and magistrate had spun on his heels and stormed out of the gaol.

John closed his eyes at the memory of the nightmare.

It still made him sick, he could sense the bile curdling in his stomach and leaking into his neighbouring organs and tissue, infesting every part of him. After he had left that hell, John had walked around the side of the prison and promptly vomited, attempting to purge himself of the foulness of the experience by retching.

Looking at his hand, he could see that he had gritted his fist once more, and it was trembling with the need to lash out. As he stood, he struggled with his repressed rage and with no other remedy available to him, John seized the decanter of brandy and hurled it against the wall with all his might. He did not flinch as the crystal smashed, causing splinters of glass to fly across the room, the rug a sea of transparent shards. John was not sure why he had done such a thing, but he could not stand it, he could not suffer the fury that boiled within him at that man’s revolting menaces against his innocent Margaret. Darling Margaret, she was utterly blameless and devastatingly virtuous, as for all her valour, she was still so unworldly. John shuddered. He was horror-struck by the thought of any fiend interfering with her. No! – he would not allow it! He would kill any monster who tried, no matter what dire punishment it meant for him in turn. What was more, he refused to touch another drop of drink, for he had seen today what the filth of a liver full of corrupted liquid could do to a man, how it could turn him from a respectable gentleman into the most deplorable reprobate.

‘God help me,’ he begged, whispering into the abyss of his lonely study.

If John was honest with himself, what Mr Whitehall had said had frightened him more than any conversation he had experienced in his whole damned life. It was not so much the repulsive vulgarities that the swine had taunted, no, it was the unsettling truth in them.

Sighing, John collapsed against the wall and sunk to his knees, his head drooping. As John languished there, he considered a few stubborn facts, ones that had been plaguing his thoughts all day long, tormenting him with a private torture. One was that he had never had sex. Two, that he had never exploited a woman. Three, that he would never molest or mistreat Margaret, never! But the fourth fact was the most hideous, and it was that if he really wanted to, he could, he could misuse her.

John loved Margaret, truly loved her, and even in the darkest corners of his soul, he could never conceive the idea of abusing her in any way. Well, after shouting at her that one time, he knew he never would again, not for anything. He would never hit her; he would never curse at her; he would never belittle her; he would never neglect her; he would never be unfaithful to her; and he would never assault her sexually. He would sooner cut off his own hands, his own tongue, his own coc─ well, he would sooner die than interfere with her.

Nonetheless, the harrowing, horrible, heinous truth was that Mr Whitehall had been absolutely right. The actuality was, if John had wanted to, then he could easily have ill-treated her. Grimacing, he knew that men in his position could do what they liked to susceptible women who were not shielded by society. In the eyes of the world, women were mere possessions to be enjoyed for the assets of their flesh. Therefore, a man with less principle than he might gladly take advantage of Margaret given the circumstances. The stark reality was that Margaret was not protected in Milton. Left defenceless as she was; her vulnerability made her a target for lechery, rendered all the worse by the problem that she was incredibly beautiful. She had a father who loved her, but who was fickle in his attention to his daughter and who was both feeble in strength of body and in his public significance. As for her mother, she was dying in her bed, scarcely ever leaving her room, and even if she could, she would barely be able to lift a finger to spare her daughter. There was no brother to safeguard Margaret, and there were hardly any servants to keep their eyes and ears open for any cause for concern.

Again, in the case of Mr and Mrs Hale, for all John admired them, he recognised that they paid little attention to Margaret’s needs. They did not even know of everything that had passed between Margaret and himself, and for all they knew, he was merely an irreproachable friend, not a man who coveted the daughter of the house in both a romantic and lustful way. What was worse, the Hales trusted John, they unconditionally believed in him and his honour. So, how easy it would be…

He felt a corpus of vomit clog his throat and choke his mouth.

John knew too that even if he did take advantage of Margaret, there was little enough she could do about it. For one, she may be so ashamed of it all that she remained silent, letting the degradation of his defiling of her fester in her like a disease. Again, if she spoke up, then who would care? Her parents? Surely, in the grand scheme of things, they did not matter. They were nothing to Milton and so, Milton would do nothing to help them. John was a master, a magistrate, a man of power, nobody would question him, or if they did, they would not dare to challenge him. In fact, behind closed doors, many a pig would probably congratulate and condone him for his conquest. From his years on the bench, he had come to realise how crookedly imbalanced the scales of justice were in favour of his own sex, and how deprived women were of fair and equal representation. The law was supposed to be honest and honourable, but many times over, John had thanked God that he had been born a man, for how wretched it would be to be a woman in this discriminatory world.

As for Margaret, how easy it would be to catch her off guard, to back her into a corner, to confine her against the wall, and…

‘NO!’ John cried, banging his fist against the wall. ‘No!’

John panted as he let all the frustration haemorrhage out of him, draining from his every pore, cleansing him of all the ugliness that poisoned his mind.

‘Never!’ he whispered.

The thing was, when he had seen Margaret on the street earlier today, the quandary that had stopped him from going to her straight away and speaking to her had not been what one might have presumed. It had not been Miss Latimer, for John in his gullibility had not even realised she was clinging to him, nor that she was laying claim to him in a presumptuous and public way that was odious, so he could not have appreciated that it had hurt Margaret. Again, it had not been what had occurred the night before. That is, that was partly his predicament, for he had been embarrassed and regretful of his unpardonable behaviour towards her, however, he had been more than ready to apologise for it, seeking a way to atone for his transgressions, his failure of character.

No, what had really incapacitated him, prevented him from going to her, was that he was dreadfully ashamed of the argument he had just had with Mr Whitehall. He felt as if the guilt of that sordid exchange was written on his face for all to see, as if it were in the stench of his sweat, the vibration of his tone, the march of his step, he felt all of it betrayed the grubbiness of it all, including the way he had failed to properly defend her honour, and the even profaner veracity of Mr Whitehall’s words. John believed that she could sense it somehow and that above all else, this was why Margaret had been scared and why she had fled from him. She could read him, he knew she could, for she could interpret him like nobody else ever had, and in that instant, he had feared that she had discovered the naked truth that he kept hidden in his heart.

The truth…what was the truth? The truth was that he wanted her, so passionately. The truth was that he could abuse her if he were so inclined. But the most essential truth, the one that was more crucial than any other, was that no matter how much he desired her, he would never ever debase her, not in thought nor in deed.

Exhaling, John rhythmically bumped his head against the wall, pondering deeply over all the stray strands of life that had brought him to this moment. John had never had sex. Not once. Not in any way. He had not even kissed a woman. He had rarely thought about why, for such considerations were pointless. It was a fact, he was a virgin, and the matter of why seemed neither here nor there.

He cast his mind back to the first time he had come close to knowing a woman in that way. John had been a fastidious student at school, his nose always buried in a book. When he was twelve, he had begun to notice girls for the first time, they had interested him, but it was in a way he could not explain. Later, when he was thirteen, he found that he wanted to look at them, he found them pleasing, and he was growing ever more curious. Then, when he was fifteen, some of his acquaintances had hauled him from his studies and dragged him through the streets of town towards the seedier spots on the map.

He had asked what they were doing, where they were going, and they had only laughed, thumping him on the back and telling him it was an initiation. At long last, they had reached a shabby and shady sort of establishment, and, on opening the doors, John’s innocence had been stolen, never to be returned. All around him, were women. They were women of all shapes, sizes, ages and ethnicities, and they were all there for one thing: sex.

His friends had hailed it as his long overdue introduction to intercourse. John had sneered at their mockery of him, presenting this lewd education as if it were something to be found on a syllabus. Never before had John entered such a place, but much to his surprise, it did not arouse him, but rather, it appalled him. Oddly enough, it was not the women who disgusted him, but the men. He watched with revulsion as the customers leered at the ladies, groped them, fondled them, grated against them, and treated them with no more dignity than a bull does a cow in a field.

John had been unable to move, his mind and body paralysed, but he had suddenly felt a hand in his, and before he knew what was happening, he was being led to a secluded room. There, he was greeted by a woman, no, a girl, one surely not much older than he, perhaps younger. She was atrociously thin, starving even, and she was dressed in tatty, dirty rags that clung to her skeletal frame. However, what disturbed John more than anything, was her face. It was sweet, it was gentle, but it was terrified…of him. She had a look of sheer fear in her eyes and her body trembled as she began to take off her clothes. John had turned away, feeling ashamed of the idea of looking at her. It seemed wrong to gaze at her, he did not even know her name, she did not know his, and here she was, undressing for him, ready to sacrifice her body for his carnal appetites. No, it was wrong, it was _all_ wrong.

Eventually, she came to him and coaxed his jaw around, so that his eyes fell upon her. It was the first time he had seen a naked woman outside of a book, and, to this day, it was the last. She was lovely. Despite her thinness, she had pleasant breasts and hips, and her skin glowed in the dim light of her measly few candles. John had felt himself stiffening slightly, but the hollow look in her eyes soon withered any hardness and he was left feeling dirty, both inside and out.

He could not do it.

Placing his hand in his pocket, John fumbled around and emerged with some coins, which he placed lightly in her hand. He did not know why he did it, but he just felt an overwhelming need to give her something, to offer some return for her kindness to him. To his shock, the girl’s eyes went wide as she counted the money and her features paled. He was puzzled, unsure if he had caused offence. Gulping, she retreated to the bed and with the look of one about to ascend the scaffold of the gallows, she turned, bent over, and bore her backside to him.

John had felt all the air vanish from his lungs.

He retched in his mouth at the sight of her bottom, for it was not beautiful, or that is, perhaps it was, but it was covered in bruises and burns, her asshole black and blue with welts.

‘I’m ready for you, Sir,’ she had said, her voice quivering.

John wanted to escape.

The poor girl! It all made sense, his charity in giving her the coins had not been seen as generosity, but as greed, as a sign of him wishing to buy the most intimate of acts with her.

In that instant, he did the only thing he could think to do. John took off his coat and striding to her side, he gently placed it over her shoulders. She looked up, startled, bewildered, and he simply shook his head, for he could not speak.

Then, he ran.

That had been the first and only time John had come anywhere near to having sex. The experience had traumatised him and he had never again frequented such a den of depravity, no matter how often his friends had teased and enticed him. No, John had decreed that if he were ever to sample the delights of the female form, then it would strictly be within the confines of marriage. It would be done with respect, romance, and reverence. It _would not_ be rape!

Then, just seven months later, John’s father had died, and everything changed. From that moment on, self-denial had not just been an ethical code by which John could choose to live but had become a necessity which he had no choice but to self-impose. From that day, John’s every waking hour was spent working, striving to pull his family back from the brink of poverty and to care for his mother and sister. He had not had the time to think about women, let alone walk out with a sweetheart or visit a scrumpet. In terms of courting, he lacked the leisure and besides, as much as girls seemed to try and catch his attention, he was not in a position to wed and provide for a wife. Indeed, a boy like John would never consider a meaningless dalliance with a girl if he had no intention of marrying her. In the case of prostitutes, he would certainly never part with a penny for it, for he could not stand to debase a woman to the level of a mere commodity, something he paid for, for that was no better than the perverse abomination of slavery. Even if he had been induced to pay, he did not have the funds, and if he did, he could not justify satisfying his lascivious inclinations over the more pressing priority of feeding his family.

What was more, after the loss of his father, he could not bear to bring a child into this world and not be able to care for it. He knew it happened. He knew that men fathered children every day, it was inevitable if they insisted on spilling their seed without a consideration for vigilance or accountability. Most men thought nothing of their responsibilities and denied that the bairns were theirs, for the offspring that resulted from a romp were as worthless to these scoundrels as a rat or a runt. Nevertheless, John could not do it. He could not father a child and not do everything in his power to support it. But what was more, he hated the idea of having a town strewn with the results of his lust and not to be in love with a single one of their mothers. No, if John were ever to have a child, it would be with a woman he cherished and a woman who bore not only his babe, but his family name.

As John had gotten older and matured from a boy to a man, he had become more occupied than ever, his every fibre forfeited to securing his future. Once he had begun to work at Mr Frank’s mill, he had dedicated every moment to proving his merit and advancing his promotion. Then, at long last, he had become the master of Marlborough Mills aged twenty-five. At this point, many thought he would marry, for he had reached the pinnacle of his success. He was young, he was wealthy, he was handsome, and he was available. But no, still, the man had taken neither a wife nor a wench, and now, five years later, people had begun to wonder if he ever would.

As John sat on his study floor, he too questioned why he had never married and why he had never renounced his vow of celibacy. There was nothing standing in his way. He may have been extremely busy building and securing his business, but he had more time than before. He was rich enough to have a wife and pander to her every whim. He was also rich enough to frequent any establishment, and, if he had been put off by the seediness, the squalor, and the probability of contracting a disease before, he could now afford to pay for his own private woman, one who served his needs alone. But no, still he abstained from such urges, for it was plain to him that a man was defined by what he did with power, and for John, he would not use it to degrade others and bribe or bully them into obliging him. No, he may have been a difficult sort of man, but he was no ogre.

It did not help that John had become cynical about both love and lust. It was no wonder, given the fact that he was surrounded by hogs of men who indulged their animal appetites at every opportunity. He had listened silently at dinner parties over brandy and cigars as the other masters had joked and boasted about their sexual acquisitions, laughing and jeering about the way they had exploited just about any woman they could get their podgy hands on. John had sat stifled by abhorrence, unable to stomach such depravity. It had left him pessimistic about the possibility of a meaningful relationship between a man and a woman, for he now mistrusted the very concept of love. He had met these men’s wives and found each of them to be pretty enough and pleasant enough to satisfy a husband. Yet, despite the warmth these men had in their own beds, they still chose to look elsewhere for carnal companionship. No, John had been left sceptical, and he no longer trusted that sex could be sacred, and that instead, it was simply sinful in its sordidness.

But then, he had met _her_.

From the first moment John had properly been introduced to Margaret in her father’s study, everything had changed.

John now deemed that day as one of the most significant events in his entire life. Throughout their heated conversation, he had felt unsettled, flustered even, as if he were on an unstable footing, being knocked-for-six by her attack, powerless to defend himself. But it was not because she was defying his authority as a Master, or sullying his reputation as a gentleman, or even that she was humiliating him in front of Mr Hale, no, no. It was that during that brief passage of time, something inexplicable was happening. It was that John Thornton, unknown to himself, was falling in love for the first and only time.

He had not appreciated it then, but a part of him that had lain dormant for years, was finally awakening. During that bizarre and utterly brutal first encounter, John’s soul had been roused, it had jolted, and it had soared like an eagle. In that instant, John’s soul had seen something, felt something, known something that he had not, that it had found its one true mate. It was the strangest and most surreal phenomenon, and he would never forget it – never!

Yet, despite his mounting passion for her, John had been unable to confess or convey his feelings for Margaret until the riot had forced his hand. It was not that he was apathetic to her brains and beauty, but rather, that he had always been poorly qualified at disclosing his emotions and what’s more, he could not bear the idea of someone, especially someone as magnificent and mesmerising as her, deciphering his heart and using its secrets to mock him, abuse him, and worst of all, pity him.

But for all his attempts at self-preservation, John had been helpless against her charms, which had expertly breached the lonely fortress of his remoteness, destroying its walls, and softening his stony heart. It was through those cracks, that slowly but surely, the sunlight, the tenderness of her soul had seeped in and stirred him, thawing his bitterness.

However, it had all gone wrong. He had ruined everything with his hateful lies the night before. That is why from today, from the instant he had woken, John had vowed to change, he had pledged to become a man who regardless of whether she wanted him or not, would still strive to be worthy of her. No more would he appear indifferent or act aloof but promised that for every day of the rest of his life, he would dedicate his undeserving body and spirit to showing Margaret just how much she meant to him.

As John cast his eyes towards the window and watched the silver moon creep out from behind the clouds and illuminate the night sky, he suddenly understood it all. Just as profoundly as Paul had experienced his epiphany on the road to Damascus, John knew why he had never had sex. It was because sex would not give him what he truly wished for. For John wanted, no, he needed something that he could not buy, or bribe, or beg from another living soul. What John craved for more than anything, was intimacy, and he ached for that intimacy with just one person, Margaret.

John would be lying if he said that he had not dreamt of taking Margaret to bed. John was not so sanctimonious that he could not acknowledge that he wanted her, desperately, as she consumed his thoughts constantly. Even though he would never admit it to another living person, if he could, John would sell his soul to the Devil for just one consensual night with her, just one night where he could take Margaret Hale to his bed and lay claim to her. He wanted to be her lover, he wanted to be her only lover, and he wanted her to want him in return. However, his passion was not so limited or perverse as to just want to bed her, for his intentions were much more noble than that. What John wanted was not to have sex with her, but to make love to her.

What John really yearned for was to be intimate with Margaret in every single way that was humanly possible. He aspired for both of them to share in each other’s joys and woes, to learn every tiny thing there was to know about each other, their habits, their interests, their quirks, their failures, their fears, their everything.

For so long, John had belonged to everyone. To his mother and sister. To his workers. To his fellow mill masters. To his bankers and investors. But now, he was weary of it all and he longed for a different kind of relationship, one where he could shake off the coat of responsibility and just be himself. He hungered to crawl into bed and into the arms of the woman who could love him for who he was. No Mr Thornton, no master, no son, no brother, _just John_.

John sighed. It was a wonderful fantasy, but that was all it was, a fairy tale, and such dreams were not made for the likes of him.

At that moment, John was startled as the clock chimed the hour. He turned his head sharply and scowled. Eight o’clock. Where had the day gone? If only John had known that in twenty-four hours precisely, Miss Hale would be in his arms, and finally, she would truly be _his_ Margaret, he would not have looked so glum. But sadly, for John, he could not possibly have known this.

As John staggered to his feet, he swayed, his body finally feeling the effects of the drink. As he stumbled over to his desk, his attention was filched by a shift in movement outside. Advancing towards the window, he peered out, his eyes scrunched as he tried to discern who or what was trespassing. Between the cluster of snowflakes that sprinkled from a starry sky, John saw a young boy scurrying away from the house, his scrawny legs struggling through the snow. Leaning against the glass, John squinted as he tried to get a closer look. It was late, the mill had closed, the gate was locked, so who could that be? But as the boy turned to look at the house one last time, John’s heart raced. He knew him!

John ran towards his study door and flung it open with renewed hope, his zeal so energetic that it almost caused the hinges to split. Skidding into the corridor, he glanced about him, his eyes hazy in the darkness of unlit passages. Still, as he adjusted his eyesight, he stopped as he saw his mother standing beside a dresser in the parlour, her hand hovering over a drawer. She seemed absorbed by her task and there was a look of uncertainty in her bearing, something that John was not accustomed to seeing in a woman so self-assured. As he moved forward, she jumped and spun to face him, a guilty expression creeping over her typically composed face.

‘John!’ she wheezed; her breath uneven. ‘You startled me!’

‘A letter!’ he demanded without explanation. ‘Has _she_ sent me a letter?’

His mother paused and her heart beat like a drum as she deliberated over what to say. She had two choices: to tell the truth, or, to tell a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay all, I hope you liked this chapter. I appreciate that it is very dark and you’re probably thinking whaaattt?! I don’t feel I need to justify it, as it’s my story and there is a warning for the content of the chapter, but I want to clarify why I included it. As I said, it doesn’t add any plot value, but I think it achieves three things:
> 
> 1: Many of you will know that Elizabeth Gaskell had a strong interest in the position of women in her contemporary society and many of her works reflected this, most notably in Ruth, (1835), which focuses heavily on abuse. Therefore, this chapter may not feed our romantic obsessions, but I feel it does her justice to a certain extent, as it looks at a topic that was very close to her heart.
> 
> 2: As above, I know that abuse is a huge issue now, but we can also appreciate how appallingly bad it was during the Victorian period. If we think about Margaret, we soon realise that she is actually in a very vulnerable situation, as she has nobody to protect her, as her parents are both feeble and, in the book/series, they constantly overlook her. Consequently, it would be easy for a man such as John who had access to the house and the family’s trust to take advantage of a woman who may seem strong and confident, but is also very innocent. We don’t like to think of our Margaret being mistreated, but if we think about it, she was very lucky not to be.
> 
> 3: Finally, John! Okay, so John is a fascinating character. I think a lot of us are drawn to John because of his conflicting qualities; he’s got a stereotypically macho outward persona, but inside, he is very sensitive. The fact is that he is physically strong, he is influential, he is rich, he is trusted, and so, he could take liberties in many areas of his life, as he would be protected legally and socially. But he doesn’t, because he is honourable. Even although this chapter is dark, I wanted it to contrast with the light of John’s true character and his feelings and intentions towards Margaret. I think to me at any rate, the distinction not only highlights prevalent Victorian themes, but helps to enhance the loving relationship that these two characters are lucky enough to share. Also, I wanted to explore the whole John never having had sex theory and wanted to give it a bit more than just the old line, “he was too busy,” because personally, even he was never that busy! So, I wanted to give that a bit more of a back story. Oh, and yes, as much as we don't like the idea of a 15 year old visiting a prostitute, we know it was perfectly normal then, sadly.
> 
> Anyway, enough of my ramblings and I hope you enjoyed the chapter all the same. I think we sometimes think of romance novels as being all about fluff, but I like to think they can shine a light on the dark sides of life too, whilst still being beautiful.


	22. THE EVE OF HAPPINESS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you had a very Merry Christmas! You may have seen that I published a couple of N&S Christmas short stories. You’ll be glad to know that I pinky promise that the next chapter is the very last angsty one, yayh! I guarantee it, as it’s already mapped out. From then on, the reconciliation begins to unfold. You may also be happy to hear that there are a few cosy chapters seeing John and Margaret engaged before the end.
> 
> Also, thank you for your kind comments on the last chapter. I was worried people would not like it due to the dark content and lack of plot, (which I know some probably did), but it was so encouraging to have some constructive comments that appreciated what I was trying to do - they really meant a lot. On that note, this story has been shortlisted for a Scottish booker prize and I'm pleased to say that out of 820 entries, it has been shortlisted for the top 20 ─ woohoo! They have said that the writing style is, “exquisite,” and, “unique.” It is a contender for an additional prize in relation to its “candid highlighting” of the themes of gender inequality, social struggle, domestic mistreatment, and sexual exploitation in the Victorian period. Anyway, I find out in the New Year if I’ve won anything.

CHAPTER 22:

THE EVE OF HAPPINESS

Mrs Thornton stood beside the window, her stately presence like that of a shadow which haunted the house, one adorned in black, silken robes of lamentation. For those who walked by, they would spot her unmoving silhouette, stop, startle with fright, and then scurry on at double the pace, keen to distance themselves from the glare of the ominous ghost that guarded Marlborough Mills.

However, the motionless lady was no phantom of terror, nor was she seeking to cast a curse on any innocent passers-by. No, she merely stood mesmerised by the squall of sleet and snow that swirled around the mill yard, glazing it in a blanket of glistening white, the snowflakes sparkling like strewn diamonds. As she peered into the dimness of the winter evening, she observed the workers emerge from the warm lair of the factory and begin to ready for home. As the frozen rain poured down from a darkening sky, it showered like white pellets, suggesting that the Snow Queen had been angered somehow, and had waged her bitter war against Milton and all that dwelt there. She watched as men, women and children all hauled their threadbare coats tighter around their bodies and shivered as harsh gusts of wind whipped up around them and snapped at their ears and toes. Mrs Thornton was not usually one to flinch from Jack Frost, being a hardy woman, but she had to admit, today, there was an intimidating bite in the air, one that even rattled her tough Thornton bones.

Every now and again, her gaze would wander from the glass and distractedly turn towards the corridor, falling upon a particular point half-way down the passageway, which was a firmly closed-door that had been locked for hours, the tenant shut away within their self-imposed prison. She did not know what he was doing in there, but she guessed that he was not working, but rather, that he was brooding. Of course, he was moping, for he would be pining, obsessing, agonising over _her_. He always was.

‘That woman!’ Mrs Thornton hissed, not for the first time that day, the venom in her seeping out of her every pore as spitefully as pus does from an exposed and putrid sore.

As Mrs Thornton lurked by the window and remarked upon the wintry scene before her, she shuddered, not from the cold, but from something much more chilling, something that made her blood turn to ice. Her heart fed a bold and red ribbon that ran through her from tip to toe, and it was as valiant as that of Boudica, for she was sure Celtic blood ran through her northern veins. However, here, now, she could feel her heart falter, because it carried a heavy burden, one it was begging her to renounce, lest it break her altogether.

Mrs Thornton had come to realise something today, something fundamental, and it frightened her through and through. Up until now, she had been jealous of Miss Hale, resenting the way that she had slithered into John’s life and so casually captured his heart. In spite of this, once the girl had gained this most precious possession, she had not prized it and cared for it as she ought, but instead, she had pitilessly toyed with it and then broken it without remorse.

Mrs Thornton had been envious of the way that John had slowly but surely moved away from his mother’s tenderness and begun to edge towards Miss Hale, placing his steadfast faith in the virtue of her company, comfort and counsel. She knew it was wrong, that she should not lay claim to her son in such a tight-fisted way, it was just that she had nobody else. Well, she had Fanny, but her daughter was a different sort of creature altogether, one who did not need her mother quite so wholly as John ever had. Over the past fifteen years, she and John had relied on each other for everything, they had needed each other in order to survive and thrive through thick and thin. Consequently, their alliance of hardship had forged a bond that was almost sacred.

But she knew, deep down, that John did not need her, not really. He had the mill, he had Milton, and now, he had the dream of Margaret. Nevertheless, for his mother, he was all she really had, so, in her self-indulgent possessiveness, she had not wanted to share him. Then, from the first day she had seen that new-found glint in John’s eyes at the mention of this newcomer, she had felt an intuitive hostility fester in her towards Miss Hale for stealing her beloved boy away. In her son’s face, she had witnessed the awakening of a spark, one that would burn as brightly and beautifully as a beacon of hope. It was a twinkle of optimism, of desire, of the chance to experience a life that was born of something much more meaningful than simply living for the sake of living, in other words, more than merely existing. To be sure, it was the opportunity to live a life that was filled with the only thing really worth striving for, the very purpose that God had made man in his own image to both receive and give: love.

Yet now, after all the palaver that had transpired today, after all she had learned, Mrs Thornton had come to realise that she had been silly, and what was infinitely more concerning, she had been selfish. How could it be that a mother who lived only to care for her children had managed to be so unforgivably self-seeking, putting her own needs before that of her son? John was a fully grown man and he was not a boy anymore. He was a man with a red-blooded man’s needs, and he dearly craved the affection and admiration of a good woman, a woman who could give him the things he truly ached for.

But what did he wish for?

Not power, or property, or prestige, no, not her John, since he was too honourable for such hollow trivialities. A man like him would aspire to acquire something much more hallowed. It was something that no amount of wealth, nor machinery, nor cotton, nor reputation, nor even hard work alone could buy or build him, for this was something significantly more sincere and personal. What John genuinely wanted, no, _needed,_ were riches that were not superficial, but treasures that would bring him contentment. What John really wished for, in the depths of his soul, was to find a woman to who he could commit his whole self, to receive companionship and constancy from her for the rest of their lives. It would be a marriage of two minds, of two people who shared the same soul, whose hearts beat as one, and whose spirits danced intertwined, speaking a secret language that they alone could ever hope to understand.

They would turn this house into a home for both of them, one that was not made of bricks and mortar but was a nest formed from the faithfully crafted twigs of devotion, friendship, and respect, the cornerstones of a blessed marriage. With this woman, he would have a family, children who he would dedicate his life to providing for and protecting, because she had a feeling that he would treasure them with a zeal that even surpassed Mrs Thornton’s own parental love and loyalty. Then, together, as husband and wife, they would blossom as one, side by side, creating their own joyful corner of Heaven. Yes, for John, what he would want more than anything, would be to be gifted with the chance to cherish his family with his every thought, word, and deed, and for them to cherish him in return.

It was this that John Thornton yearned for more than anything else on God’s good earth. It was a fine aspiration, one that his mother would not begrudge him. But sadly, for John, he was not interested in any of it if it was not with Margaret Hale.

It was as Mrs Thornton watched the mill gates close for the end of the working day, that she understood something of staggering consequence. The truth was, she did not mind if John married Miss Hale.

As she realised this, she felt a great weight fall from her shoulders and she breathed a hefty sigh of relief.

The fact was, that it would not be easy for the matriarch to adjust to the reality of such a union, especially when the girl was such a flibbertigibbet. It was difficult to warm to her when she flaunted such a headstrong nature, with all her unruliness, refusal to conform to expectations, and outrageously wilful determination to do what she liked, when she liked, and however she pleased. Mrs Thornton also struggled with the idea of another woman replacing her as mistress of this house and rendering her surplus to requirements. Even so, if she was being honest with herself, she just wanted him to be happy, and if that meant Miss Hale entering this house as John’s bride, then by God! – Hannah Thornton would welcome her with open arms.

But it was not to be.

For all his unadulterated passion for her, it was not enough since Miss Hale did not want him in return. She had mocked his declarations and snubbed his proposal. She had denounced his character and chastised his actions with such callous indifference. She had turned from him and into the embrace of another, a lover, somebody who she preferred over John and all the eternal and unconditional love he offered her. And now, even if all that was not enough, she had fled from him, signifying that she could not bear to be near him. She had written to him, exiling him from her presence, telling him once and for all that he had no hope of ever calling her his own. No, there was no possibility of a happy ending for her boy, as Margaret Hale would never be Margaret Thornton, and John would never be granted his one and only wish.

Mrs Thornton sighed.

It was true that she could accept Miss Hale as John’s wife, but since that was not to be, her wish for her son’s happiness had twisted into something toxic, something terrible that resembled a deep-rooted hatred, one that had poisoned her very core. It was not because that girl threatened to take John away that she loathed her, no, it was the opposite, it was because she had failed to do it. She had declined to acknowledge, accept, and appreciate his feelings for her. Therefore, if John refused to disparage Miss Hale, then his mother would have to despise her in his stead.

Mrs Thornton was so angry with Miss Hale for asking John to stay away, for it pained her to see the suffering in his face when he studied that letter. It was as if the last shreds of his resilience had been snatched away and she had banished him to a barren wilderness, never to return. Nevertheless, if she had to be frank, Mrs Thornton was relieved. It may have been a harsh blow to John’s spirits, but he would grapple through this, and in the meantime, it was better that he did not see her, because only then could he reconcile himself to the reality of a life without her.

Mrs Thornton scoffed.

As she contemplated all that had passed today, she thought on how people had woefully misunderstood Congreve’s prolific words when he had said: _“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”_ The sentiment was right enough, but folks seemed to assume that it meant a woman spurned by a lover, but it did not, no, because what he had really meant was: “Hell hath no fury like a woman whose son has been scorned.” This was certainly true, for there was no more dangerous creature alive in all the world than a protective mother. Indeed, she was convinced that there was no animal from the depths of the Amazon jungle or the planes of the African Savanna that could compare to the fierceness of this lioness when her cub was threatened.

Mrs Thornton sincerely believed that it was her single and solemn responsibility to spare her son any more grief at the hands of _that girl_. She would do all she could to ensure that he was granted the necessary time, distance, and reassurance required to lick his wounds. Then, when he was ready, like a phoenix, he would rise from the ashes, stronger than ever. She worried that his heart would never heal, as it would most likely always be marred with the scars of disappointment and denial at the way that mercenary lass had trampled on his wholesome devotion with disgust. No, perhaps it would never be entirely repaired, but she would nurse her son until his heart had mended to an extent in which it was not completely and utterly broken. Maybe then, he could find a glimmer of happiness amongst the embers of his misery over Margaret and he would marry someone who would perhaps not set his soul on fire, but who would guarantee that he was never hurt again, and for his mother, that was all she could hope for. Yes, John’s happiness was the most important thing in all the world to Hannah Thornton, and if that meant condemning the woman he loved, then so be it.

‘I will protect him,’ she breathed into the darkness. ‘No matter what.’

As Mrs Thornton turned once more towards the window, she halted as she noticed a boy sprinting towards the house, his scrawny legs struggling to stride through the gathering mounds of fluffy snow. There was something familiar about his sprightly step and she could have sworn that she had seen him before. She heard the front door open and close, then saw the lad scampering away, his ragged scarf flapping behind him in the breeze.

It was a moment later that the butler appeared along the hallway, a thin piece of paper clasped between his gloved fingers. He paused outside the master’s study and was about to knock when Mrs Thornton abandoned her restraint and raced towards him. With her sleek skirts rustling in her wake, she dashed to his side, and with a swoop like a hawk snatching a mouse, she seized the mysterious missive from his clutches.

In a hushed voice, she muttered: ‘I will take it!’ She then flapped her hand, signalling that the servant should leave her. Casting a nervous glance towards the closed door, she just hoped that John had not heard the commotion. Tiptoeing her way back to the parlour, Mrs Thornton’s eagle eye fell upon the letter that rested in her hands.

_For the attention of Mr Thornton_

_Marlborough Mills_

_ Urgent _

_What was this?_

Could it be from the mill? Surely not, for John was the Master and the only other person likely to send any communications was Williams, and he would not have conveyed an errand boy from out with the confines of the factory to do his bidding. If there had been anything to discuss, he would have come to the house himself and would have done so before he went home for the day.

Could it be from the bank? It could conceivably be from them, as she knew that the mill was facing economic difficulties. Perhaps John had engaged in further discussions and dealings with the financiers and they were sending their response. But no, even then, bank business tended to be sent formally through the postal service, not hand delivered by a street urchin.

Could it be regarding judicial matters? That was a marked possibility, as John was always in demand as the most competent and capable of all the magistrates in the county. However, the Sessions were not currently running, and even so, she knew for a fact that a fellow Justice of the Peace was attending to the majority of Milton’s legal concerns at present, so it was improbable that this was the note’s design. Besides, if it were, then it would most likely have made his prominent position and the memorandum's subsequent purpose more apparent on the envelope.

Could it be from one of the other masters? This seemed like the most likely source, as there was so much unrest in Milton at present in the aftermath of the infernal strike, that errant union, and the depreciation in trade, that it was more than possible that one of the other mill owners may have had important information to impart to John. Yes, it was from another master, that was it.

Mrs Thornton was about to walk back to her son’s study and knock on his door so that she could hand over the letter, it was addressed to him after all. However, just as she was about to announce herself, she aimlessly turned the envelope over and abruptly froze. Her breath hitched and she felt her stomach clench, for there, on the back of the envelope, she spotted a small inscription which read: _Crampton._

Mrs Thornton wobbled, her knees becoming inexplicably unstable, causing her to reach out and grasp the wall for support. Her mind descended into a riot of strife, each thought more unsettling than the last. What was this? Who was it from? What did it say? What did they want? Was the content good or bad? What would John think? What would he say? And most worrying of all: what would he do?

Glancing at the swirling calligraphy of the address, she felt her heart skip a beat as she discerned that the hand appeared most elegant, implying that a lady was behind this.

Mrs Thornton found herself at a crossroads. If she gave John the letter, then who knew what fresh turmoil it may unleash. He could be thrown into yet another chaotic storm of mayhem, one which flung his already fragile heart into uproar.

Then again, _if_ she did not give John the letter…

In that moment, Mrs Thornton did something that she had never done before. Without stopping to deliberate over the integrity of her decision, she ripped open the envelope and invaded her son’s privacy. With frantic eyes, she skimmed the missive.

_Dear Mr Thornton,_

_I would very much appreciate it if you could oblige me by coming to call on myself this evening or as soon as is convenient. I am aware that you are a busy man, but there are matters that I wish to discuss with you urgently. I shall be ready to receive you at any point this evening, or, if you prefer, please send word of a preferred date and time. However, Sir, I both request and recommend that you attend as soon as possible, as it is in your best interests as well as mine._

_Yours most earnestly,_

_Mrs Maria Hale_

Mrs Thornton held the letter for what felt like an age, her hands rattling, her eyes scanning over the words, reading and revising them a hundred times, trying to decipher the meaning, searching for any cryptic connotation that she may have missed.

She let out a trembling breath, one that she had not even realised she was holding in. Mrs Thornton was simply grateful that it was not from _her_. She had feared that Miss Hale had written to add additional insult to injury by further demeaning John in some underhand way or other. Or worse, she had dreaded that the lass may have written something, anything that would give him even the merest glimmer of hope. For she knew all too well, that if that girl so much as wrote one kind word to him, that flicker of faith in John’s breast would burn more fiercely than any fire, and there truly would be no prospect for his salvation, no chance for him to be saved from the seductive spell of that siren and her song.

However, it had surprised her to discover that the missive had come from Mrs Hale, for of all the unconventional people in that cramped Crampton abode, the mistress of the house seemed to her the most ineffectual of them all. It would astonish Mrs Thornton to learn that such a fine and delicate lady as Mrs Hale would even know what day of the week it was, let alone degrade herself to such a low degree as to bestow her regal regard in the direction of a Milton man like John. For a high and mighty woman like Mrs Hale, she would consider John as not being quite up to snuff, as he was a modest northern lad who gained his crust not by idle property-owning or by a blue-blooded privilege of birth, but who earned it by the way of an honest trade. Her John may have been worth ten of the Hales, but in their southern snobbery, they would always consider him their inferior in every way.

Nonetheless, it did leave her wondering what the note referred to and why Mrs Hale should wish to see him at all. Why was its tone so earnest? Why was it to his advantage to call upon her? Why could it not wait until morning?

Her harried mind considered every plausible direction of discernment. Was it credible that Mrs Hale knew of John’s attachment to her daughter? No, definitely not, for John had hardly seen or spoken to the sickly woman during the course of his numerous visits there over his period of association with that family. It also seemed that her wilful daughter was permitted to get up to all kinds of waywardness and her parents appeared ill-inclined to discipline or restrain her, which probably meant that they were none the wiser when it came to John’s proposal of marriage.

Moreover, if Mrs Hale had learnt of John’s connection to Miss Hale and all that had passed between them, then it was to be expected that it would be Mr Hale, as head of the family, who would be interrogating John about his history with their only child and his ensuing intentions as a gentleman of honour. Mr Hale may be a bungling buffoon, but he was a man of the cloth, a man with a pious moral conscience, and he would certainly have contacted John either in writing or in person to review the matter forthwith. No, no, for all his incompetence, she doubted that the parson would have left it to his wife to confront John about his relationship with Margaret. And of course, why would she have said that the interview would be in his best interests if its sole purpose was to berate and belittle him and his hopes of wooing and winning their daughter?

But then, Mrs Thornton felt her pride prickle, because she had a sceptical notion that perhaps the Hales did know, but that they were keeping quiet on purpose. She creased her brow as she pondered this cynical alternative. Yes, it was plausible that they may have been more than willing to use John to further their reduced circumstances in Milton society, but it was quite another kettle of fish welcoming him as one of the family, as their son-in-law, as the husband of their precious daughter. A conceited glower pursed Mrs Thornton’s lips, for she could not endure the idea of her noble John being scorned by the likes of the Hales. She knew how it would be. They would be happy to have him at their beck and call, treating him like a lap dog, but heaven forbid that they lower themselves to tolerate a tradesman as their kin.

They surely had plans for their daughter to wed a grand London gentleman, and John, her dear, humble John, he could go and whistle. What was more, if the mother really was dying, then she would want to ensure that her only child was married as soon as possible to the most suitable candidate, one who she believed would look after her most treasured earthly possession after she was gone.

Yes, on reflection, it was much more likely that Mrs Hale wished to confer with John in some way about how he could be of service to them, of some way they could use him for their own gain, without a care in the world for his needs. They would twist it, so that it seemed like he was gaining something, but really, they would be manipulating him, as always. No, Mrs Thornton was not sure what the ailing lady’s message alluded to, but there was one thing for certain, she did not know of John’s love for her daughter, because if she did, then there was no way that Margaret’s mother would be encouraging his hopes.

Mrs Thornton then considered what to do with this piece of distressing correspondence. She felt her feet unconsciously begin to pace towards John’s study, as it was intended for him, so unquestionably, he must be allowed to receive it and decide how best to proceed. All the same, she found herself unexpectedly halting, and every fibre in her being was beset by indecision.

John did not know she had the letter, or…or that it even existed. So…did he really need to find out?

Mrs Thornton felt her conscience scream out in protest, because she knew what she was considering, plotting even, and it was shocking. She was proposing to cheat John of his right to make his own assessments and judgments, robbing him of his valued sense of self-determination, a trait that had never been taken from him, not even in his darkest hour. If she gave it to him, then she would be fulfilling her moral obligations, for the letter was his, not hers, and he was entitled to elect what he wanted to do. He may not even go to the Hales, he may determine to dissolve his relationship with them, or at least, to delay in responding until his mind was more settled. Besides, the weather outside was foul and it would be ludicrous for him to venture out on any sort of business tonight, whether it be personal or professional. 

Nonetheless, she knew that would not be the case. He would read it and within seconds, he would be gone, away, out that door, and marching into the bitter night, striding through the streets of Milton to the place he now thought of as home, as wherever she was, his heart belonged, his soul dwelt, and his mind constantly wandered to. She could see it in his eyes, whatever he was doing, wherever he was at, whoever he was talking to, he was not really present in the moment, not anymore, as he was now half a man, with one half here and the other half there, with her. It was only his body that was left behind, like some sort of empty shell, and she knew that he wished that every part of him could go there, to be with her, only then would he be complete. So, there was no question that if he opened this message, he would go to Crampton and his heart would be broken yet again, smashing it into small splinters, each one cutting him to pieces.

All of a sudden, Mrs Thornton gazed down at her arms and there he was, just a new-born babe. Tiny, sweet, pure, and a mop of thick black hair. As his wide cobalt eyes stared back at her, she felt her heart cry, for she would do anything to shield this treasured little lamb, anything. She was his mother, he was her child, and nothing and nobody would stop her from safeguarding him, not even John himself.

She glanced towards the fire; its smouldering flames an enticing solution. Still, she quickly bowed her head to the floor in shame, as she could not bring herself to contemplate torching all evidence of her duplicity, cremating the truth.

Mrs Thornton began to breathe heavily, an unbearable spasm squirming in her stomach and weaving her into knots of irresolution.

She did not know what to do.

She had already opened it, so, of course, he would see that and be angry with her for her presumptuous testing of boundaries, of her unjustifiable raid on his privacy. He had every right to be. Still, she could not bear his contempt, as in such a time of instability, she could ill afford to lose the trust of her beloved boy, not when he was already so lost to her. She could fib and say that it was a mistake, that she had not meant to do it, that she had thought it was for her, but no, if she were to lie at all, then her falsehoods must be minimal and void of anything as sickly and spineless as self-preservation.

It may have been the morally correct thing to give John the letter, but then again, from a maternal perspective, she had quite another type of obligation to defend. If she hid the note or destroyed it, then she would be shielding him from further pain, even at the expense of his resentment, of his revulsion at her sedition.

Since coming to Milton, Miss Hale had unlocked a part of John that had previously lain dormant. With just one look, she had opened his heart to the possibility of love and unleashed Pandora’s box on them all. Whether through artfulness or unworldliness, Miss Hale had let loose disarray, havoc and turmoil in the Thornton’s lives, and after seeing the mess it had made of John’s once ordered existence, Mrs Thornton decided that it was time to put the lid on Pandora’s box once and for all.

Clutching at her heart, Mrs Thornton skulked over to a nearby dresser and gingerly opened the top drawer. With tremulous hands, she placed the missive inside, concealing it within a book, a Bible. With a flitting glance, her eyes roamed over the indiscriminate page that she had unfolded the tome at and secreted the note.

Genesis 24:4: _“That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh.”_

The irony did not escape her, and she shoved the drawer closed with an overpowering shudder of fear and foreboding. But it was not God’s forgiveness she would need, for that would be granted readily enough, no, it was the forgiveness of someone much closer to home. Mrs Thornton prayed that John would never know, or if he did, that he would pardon her, since his wrath and more importantly, his disillusionment in her would be unbearable if he should discover her dishonesty. She could only hope that if it came to that, he would not judge her for her deception, but would acknowledge her loyalty, because she would not defend herself, merely explain, clarifying why she had done such a wicked thing. Indeed, she would do all she could to safeguard him, regardless of what it cost her conscience and devout sense of right and wrong. Yes, she would protect him, irrespective of what it took, in defiance of the personal price to her scruples.

No matter what.

It was at this point that Mrs Thornton spied a shadow lurking in the corner of her eye. Her head shot up, and she near enough jumped out of her own skin, her heart beating like the wings of a bird. As she lifted her eyes from the drawer, she saw John standing there outside his study door, his tall body hunched over menacingly in the middle of the passageway like a sinister spectre.

‘John!’ she wheezed; her breath uneven. ‘You startled me!’

‘A letter!’ he demanded without explanation. ‘Has _she_ sent me a letter?’

Mrs Thornton was caught off guard and was at a loss, unsure of how to reply. She could feel her mouth turning dry and her palms sweating, a sensation of shame and edginess that the woman who was formed of resilience and resolve was not accustomed to.

How much did he already know?

As John stepped towards her and the moon bathed him in a pool of pale light, she felt her nerves quake, for there was something altogether intimidating about his appearance. He was not wearing a jacket, cravat, or waistcoat, instead, he was only in his trousers and shirt, which hung loosely over the contours of his chest and shoulders, its slackness owing to the amount of weight he had lost of late. His undressed attire stripped away his typically immaculate appearance, replacing it instead with something more wild. His hair was unkempt and sticking up in all directions, like some sort of untamed garden hedge. He stank of alcohol, his breath like that of a brewery. His face was pallid and clammy, as if he had been sweltering under the intensity of some immense ordeal. Nevertheless, none of these were the most troubling part, no, as the most disturbing feature was his eyes. They were wide, blood-shot and piercing, the blue intensity so focused, so impassioned, that she believed she could see into his very soul. In that instant, just for a moment, she could have sworn that she could see George staring back at her from deep within her son’s eyes and it terrified her.

As Mrs Thornton stood there hypnotised by a disquieting horror, she did not get a chance to respond, for he quickly filled the silence, his voice both gruff and agitated. ‘Was there a letter?’ John demanded to know impatiently. ‘ _Well_? Was there?’ he asked, moving closer still, his figure looming over her own.

Mrs Thornton hesitated and swallowed thickly. She had two options before her, to tell the truth, or to tell a lie, but which was it to be?

At long last, she let out a rasping answer: ‘No.’

She felt all the air desert her lungs and she could not breathe.

Then, clearing her throat, she tried again, this time striving to sound more confident: ‘No, John, there was no letter.’

John was confused. He stumbled backwards and shook his head fiercely.

‘But…’

He glanced around the room helplessly, almost as if his hopes could conjure up the artefact in question.

‘I thought…I saw…,’ he muttered hoarsely, his face one of complete bewilderment.

‘You saw _nothing_ ,’ his mother insisted, her tone firm and final. ‘There was, and is, nothing to see.’

Striding over to his side, she rested her hands on his forearms and gazed resolutely into his disenchanted features, for after all, if a mother was to deceive her son, then she ought to do it with conviction. She would not be like Brutus, stabbing her friend in the back, no, if she was to betray the man who meant everything to her, then she would do it boldly and bravely, and she would look him straight in the eye. She tried to tell herself that she was doing nothing wrong, that this was for his own good, for the greater good. Yet, despite her resolve, she could feel guilt gnawing away in the pit of her gut and it threatened to overwhelm her.

Taking a deep breath, she decreed: ‘John…you are tired. You are drunk.’

‘I am not drunk!’ he argued tetchily, swaying slightly from side to side.

‘Well, you are certainly not sober, my boy, that is for sure. Oh, John! Go to bed, sleep. I promise things will look better in the morning.’

For a minute, John continued to stand there, utterly dumfounded, and utterly devastated. With a look of naked melancholy, he mumbled: ‘I just thought…maybe…she,’ but alas, her poor boy did not have the energy to finish.

At long last, he turned and traipsed away. He passed his study and did not even lock the door, his mind too fixated on his discontent. She listened with a laden heart as she heard his heavy footsteps dragging up the stairs, his pace slow and sombre. As she watched him go, Mrs Thornton shut her eyes and prayed for clemency. Finally, she heard his bedroom door close, but this time, it was not with a cantankerous slam, but with the quiet thud of one who had used up every last ounce of strength, all the fight having left them.

‘No matter what,’ she whispered. ‘I will protect you, no matter what!’

* * *

Mrs Hale sat stewing in her own thoughts, her fingers stroking idly at the hem of her calling cap, the one she wore to welcome visitors, the stray strands of her greying hair carefully tucked away out of sight.

She startled as the clock struck the hour, the chimes sending a shrill shiver up her spine. As she stretched to look towards the small Georgian clock that sat ceremoniously by her bed, she frowned. Ten o’clock. Surely, he would not be coming now.

Her mind spun round and round and round, turning and twisting in a frenzied spiral of doubt.

_Where was he?_

As she nervously wound her handkerchief around her fingers, she thought everything over, her mind analysing every tiny detail. She had been so convinced, so confident that Mr Thornton truly loved Margaret. So, why had he not come? _Why_?

Sitting up straight and taking a deep and calming breath, Mrs Hale proceeded to consider each potential impediment in turn, her discerning intellect lining them up and arranging them in order of likelihood.

Perhaps it was the weather, for it truly was dreadful outside, quite arctic. He could have been waiting until the morning before he ventured out and came to Crampton, since it was near enough two miles to trudge in treacherous terrain, with sheets of ice and mounds of snow forming a hazardous path for him to trek. The roads were so bad, that it would even be foolish to try and send a message now, as since dispatching her own one several hours previously, the storm had intensified in its ire. Yes, it would be difficult to reach their door safely, and a sensible man would wait until the squall had subsided before confronting the elements and either coming in person or sending word in his stead. But no, as logical as this seemed, Mrs Hale did not credit it, not for a moment. Mr Thornton may have been a practical and prudent sort of man, but he was also a robust one who was made of hearty northern stock. Such weather to him was probably inconvenient, but was not unbearable, and given the nature of his supposed visit, she thought he would rebel against the bleakest of blizzards if it meant he had even the slightest chance of making things right with Margaret. 

So, no, that was not it. What else then could it be?

Another hindrance that could explain his absence was that he had been detained on more pressing business. He was, after all, a master and a magistrate, therefore, it was more than possible that he had been detained on important matters of trade or the law. However, this niggled her, as she felt that if a man were to put affairs of industry before the affairs of his happiness, then that would make him a cold sort of person, someone who was not worthy of Margaret’s heart and hand. No, as much as she believed that Mr Thornton was a conscientious gentleman, one who took his responsibilities most seriously, she also felt sure that if he had received and understood the letter, then the authority of God himself could not have stopped him from coming.

Alright, so that difficulty was as equally improbable as the first. Was there a third alternative?

Then again, maybe the message had not arrived at all. That could be it, the boy who was supposed to deliver it could have become lost, or he may have misplaced the missive himself, or he might have headed for the shelter of home in the snowstorm, or worse, he may have become stuck or injured – what a thought! That was a distinct and disconcerting possibility. On the other hand, the flurry of frost had not been so very bad when he had set out, so surely, the odds of any of those issues arising were a tad fanciful.

No, no, no, there must be another cause, something she had not taken into account, she determined, her eyes sharpening shrewdly.

‘Think Maria, think,’ she muttered irritably, appealing to her sense of acumen.

Now then, it could be that the missive had been handed over to the Thornton household, but it may be that he had just not read it yet. Some men were prone to placing their correspondence in stacks and would only refer to them at certain points in the day or week. But, no, again, Mr Thornton was too meticulous a man for such procrastination. Besides, it had been marked as urgent, so either his curiosity or concern would have been piqued and he certainly would have opened it without delay.

‘What else could it be?’ she mumbled, her mind mulling over every feasible complication.

Well, it may be that Mr Thornton had retired early to bed and had not had the chance to attend to his evening post. Yes, he could be ill or fatigued, particularly if his mind were overwrought given the problems he was facing at the mill, as the stress of financial uncertainty was enough to drive any man to distraction. Once more, if his mind was plagued by thoughts of unrequited love, then this would only add to his weariness, for nothing weakened the heart more than the ache of loneliness and despair. This was certainly a reasonable quandary, but still, Mrs Hale shook her head, since she deemed that Mr Thornton was most likely a man who habitually went late to his bed and rose early, his timetable stringent, relentless, and unforgiving. She guessed that due to his unfortunate personal history of struggle, that he was accustomed to stress and strain, and that it probably did not perturb him in the same way that it did others. What was more, if he really were under so much pressure, then she had a feeling that he would not be the sort of man to shrink away from his obligations and skulk off to the sanctuary of his bed, not when he had strength left in his body to defy the strife that waged war around him.

Mrs Hale nibbled at her nails and wondered what else there could be. Then, suddenly, she cocked her head and wrinkled her nose, as it occurred to her that she had perhaps been looking at this all wrong. Could it be that he had read the letter, but that he had deliberately chosen not to act on it?

‘No. Maybe. No. Possibly. Oh dear!’ she gasped.

This thought gave rise to a nagging uneasiness in her breast. Of course, that could well be it. Perhaps her words had unnerved him, and he was too afraid to respond. Her ambiguous language may have made the boy scared, anxious, guilty, cross even, so he had chosen to either ignore it, or postpone his answer, so that he could better ponder and plan his retort. He may have been anxious about what she and her husband knew of his relationship to Margaret. He may have dreaded what they would say or what they would do. He may have feared that they would break their connection with him, and he would be denied the opportunity and freedom of seeing Margaret ever again. Certainly, with such an outcome facing him, she could easily imagine that he would bury his head in the sand and refuse to acknowledge the prospect of such a fate.

Yet, in contrast, he was an unfalteringly honest man and an honourable one. If Mr Thornton thought that he had anything to reproach himself for, then he would be the first to voluntarily knock on their door and confess all, willingly holding out his hands in remorse. His conscience would not allow him to injure a friend he revered as much as Mr Hale, a man who she believed he regarded with as much respect as a father. Furthermore, she knew that if he thought that his relationship with Margaret was in any way threatened, no matter how hopeless it may already seem, a man like Mr Thornton would do all he could to salvage it, for she trusted that he would walk through the fires of Hell if it meant he could be worthy of her. No, he may have been unsettled by her letter, but his principled sense of courage would have won out over any notion of primitive cowardice.

Yes, these were all hypothetical reasons as to why Mr Thornton had not come to see her this night, some more rational than others, but still, none of them quite rang true. Still, then again, there was one other possibility, one that made her jaded heart shudder.

Perhaps, maybe, just possibly, he _did not_ love Margaret after all.

‘No!’ Mrs Hale contended, her head shaking most adamantly. ‘No! He _does_ love her; I am sure of it.’

Leaning over towards her conveniently placed bedside bureau, Mrs Hale took up her pen and paper, and with the former balanced against her lips, she prepared herself to compose yet another letter to Mr Thornton, and this time, she would not be so vague. Whatever the cause of his absence, she would find out, but it would have to wait until the dawn of a new day. The gale was too harsh for her second note to reach him tonight, and more to the point, even if he did receive it, it was too perilous for him to call now and the hour was too incongruously late. No, she would write it, she would seal it, and, if she had not heard word from him by noon tomorrow, she would send it, and insist that a faithful witness placed it into his own hands and watched as he read it. That way, there would be no uncertainty as to his intelligence of the facts and his resulting intentions.

Oh! – how Mrs Hale wished she were not so feeble in terms of her failing body. If her frame were stronger and not the captive of frailty, she would rise from her bed and go to him herself, as she firmly believed that if a person wanted something done, then they were best doing it themselves. Furthermore, she considered that it was much wiser and pragmatic not to leave matters of the greatest import to the fickleness of men and their faint hearts. Indeed, when love was in jeopardy, then it was a woman’s role to rescue it. But alas, she could not move, so she would have to let her incisive mind speak for her and the pen be her vessel of speech.

As she placed the nib onto the paper and watched as the ink began to seep into the fibres of the parchment, she was interrupted by the opening of her door and Dixon ambling in with a tray of food. Mrs Hale smiled as she noted that the plate contained carefully sliced fruit, preserves that had doubtless come from Mr Thornton’s basket the other evening. On seeing her mistress sitting up with a restless look on her wan face, and with her writing materials once again at hand, Dixon huffed and tutted.

‘Everyone seems to be writing letters at the minute,’ she grumbled. ‘I do not know what has gotten into everyone, such an extravagance of correspondence I never did see!’ she went on, noisily stoking the fire and coughing as a cloud of smoke billowed around her.

‘Hmm? Yes, I understand Mr Hale has written one too,’ Mrs Hale replied distractedly, her fingers scratching away at the missive, anxious to get it completed before her energy depleted.

‘And the Miss,’ Dixon added nonchalantly, sniffing at the soot which sullied the inside of her nose.

Mrs Hale stopped, and she dropped her pen, which fell with a clatter upon the wooden floor.

‘Margaret?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘She has been writing letters too?’

Dixon rose gracelessly from the hearth and scrubbed her grimy hands on her apron. ‘Yes, she had written one as well,’ puzzled as to why such an insignificant act would arouse such excitement in her mistress. ‘It was sitting beside the study door last I saw it. That was last night, I think.’

Mrs Hale’s eyes near enough popped out of her head. ‘By the study door? Last night?’ she repeated, her mind a tizzy, ‘Could you see it? Who was it to?’ she squeaked with anticipation.

Dixon sighed and rolled her eyes. Really! ─ it was most taxing trying to nurse a patient who insisted on getting herself into such a flap over every trifling detail. Truly, the mistress was not usually so twitchy, but over the past couple of days, it was as if her malady had rendered her quite barmy.

‘I do not know. I think…I think it began with, “ _My Dearest One_.”’

Mrs Hale sucked in her breath. ‘Oh my!’ she spluttered. ‘Did you not discover who it was to?’ she persisted, hopeful that her maid had been her typically and thoroughly nosy self.

Dixon lifted her chin into the air, terribly miffed at the implication that she had been prying into other people’s affairs, sticking her nose where it was not wanted, and checking their private correspondence. However, luckily for Mrs Hale, the snooping servant had done just that.

‘Oh, I do not really recall,’ she lied, fluffing the pillows. ‘I believe it might have been intended for Master Frederick.’

Mrs Hale nibbled her lip, thinking this through, as this was not the time to be hasty and get vital details wrong. ‘You seem unsure,’ she pursued.

‘No, it was to him, right enough,’ Dixon clarified confidently. ‘She mentioned Helstone and their childhood. Then, when I looked more closely…not that I was really looking of course, she referred to him as her brother. Mind you, at first glance, it certainly didn’t look so innocent,’ she snorted.

‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Hale pressed, her stomach doing somersaults.

‘Well, it was just that all the pages were fanned out over each other, so at a first glance, I couldn’t ─ I mean, anyone who was inclined to read it, would not have been able to understand the entire gist. At first, I must admit that it looked like she was writing to a sweetheart. There was lots of talk of love, loneliness, and wishing they would be together again. It even finished with: _“With all my love, your Margaret_.” I blushed thinking that I had stumbled upon something most improper, but I soon realised that the way the pages were arranged, it merely looked like a love letter, but it was just a letter from a sister to her brother, as innocent as can be.’

Mrs Hale fell back against her pillows, her pulse racing, the palpitations in her chest causing her to perspire.

_‘With all my love, your Margaret,’_ she whispered. ‘Good gracious me!’

What had Margaret said? Last night, she had thought that everything with Mr Thornton had been going so well, that they were getting along, that he even seemed different. But then, abruptly, out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, he had become incensed.

What did she say had happened? They had been talking, then she had offered to get the volume of Shakespeare…which would be in the library. And what would he have done? Stayed in the corridor? She doubted it. No, he would have followed her, and then…that meant…he would probably have waited…and watched her…by…by the door!

‘You said the letter was beside the door, Dixon?’ Mrs Hale checked. ‘The library door? The study downstairs?’ she urged, her tone revealing her acute anxiety, her critical need for answers.

‘Yes, it was sitting on a small table right beside the door,’ Dixon verified, more than a little frustrated by all this nonsense. ‘It was hard to miss.’

Mrs Hale exhaled, and all the uncertainty drifted out of her, leaving her feeling lighter than air, and more relaxed than she had felt for many, many months.

‘Oh, my giddy Aunt! – that was it!’

She smiled and nodded her head sagely. ‘Finally, I have it. The final piece of the puzzle.’

He had seen the letter.

That explained everything.

He had been hurt. He had been humiliated. He had been heartbroken.

The poor man.

Mrs Hale was still unsure as to why Mr Thornton had not come to Crampton this night, but there was one thing she knew for certain, he had to know the truth about _that_ letter. He had to know that it had not been a message of romantic devotion between a maiden and a man, but a message of family dedication between a sister and a brother. Regardless of whether he had not come tonight due to his own decision or due to an impediment out with his control, he unequivocally had to know that Margaret did in fact love him and that he was the only one she wanted.

Yes, he _had_ to know.

‘No matter what,’ she said with unshakable resolve, her hand once more reaching for her pen, her eyes falling upon the King and Queen of Hearts that still rested by her side.

* * *

As the clock struck midnight, John awoke, his eyes fluttering open in a flash.

Sitting bolt upright, he looked an absolute fright. His hair was jutting out left, right and centre as if it had never been introduced to a comb. He was wearing only his shirt and trousers, the former partially unbuttoned, leaving most of his chest exposed, the cold air chilling him.

As he startled and stared into the darkness of his bedroom, he had the strangest feeling. He could not describe it, nor could he rationalise it, but he had the express sensation that today, something miraculous was going to happen, that with the dawn of this new day, it was the beginning of the rest of his life.

However, this silly notion soon left him, as he groaned and grunted groggily, his head aching with an intense pain. He could feel his stomach churning and a blurriness fogged his vision. Whether he was still slightly drunk, he could not tell, but he knew that the culprit of his ailment was alcohol, a companion who he would not be seeking solace from again.

‘Damn you, John Thornton!’ he growled, collapsing back against his bedding.

John unexpectedly felt so very thirsty and he started to cough and stick out his tongue in a most undignified manner, his gullet hoarse from dryness. It was certainly not a pretty sight, for he both resembled and sounded rather like a cat who had a ball of fur lodged in its throat. After staggering to his nightstand, he grumbled to find that he had no water. As he lifted his head and his eyes skimmed over the looking glass, he jumped and spun round, for there was a hideous beast prowling behind him with a mane of thick black hair and a face as menacing as a madman. With sharpened eyes, he scoured the room for the scoundrel, but alas, the fiend seemed to have vanished into the night. Too right, thought John, for he would have trounced the reprobate!

Amidst a series of whinging mutterings, John then threw open his bedroom door and began to stalk through the passageways in search of something to quench his thirst. He guessed that the brandy must still be befuddling his brain, as he found himself a smidgen confused about how to walk, forgetting the basic skill of how to put one foot in front of the other and move in a straight line. It did not help that everything he looked at seemed to have doubled or quadrupled, making his coordination and assessment of his surroundings damned tricky. After bumping and banging into various walls or items of furniture and letting out more than one regrettable profanity into the silence of the sleeping house, he eventually found his way downstairs.

Nevertheless, as John began to blunder towards the kitchen, he noticed that his study door was ajar and he frowned, as he was never so careless as to leave it unlocked, not when it contained many confidential documents. Swaying towards it, he pushed open the frame and found that he had left the room in a deplorable state of disarray. There were pieces of parchment strewn across the table and floor, most of which were crumpled and creased beyond use. He scowled, for he could not remember how, when, or why such a thing had taken place, as he was never usually so untidy, nor so irresponsible with his writing materials.

Lighting a solitary candle, he commenced to examine the scattered articles, knitting his brow as he tried to interpret the words, which all seemed to overlap and muddle together most tediously. There was a letter to the bank seeking an extension on his overdraft, another to the gaol urging them to detain Mr Whitehall on further charges, a third to Slickson about the way the slimy eel had slyly reduced his worker’s wages, and a fourth to…oh…to _her_.

John was intrigued and peered more closely at the paper; his eyes scrunched up as he tried to study what it said. It was not entirely clear, but if he squinted just so, then he could make out the odd sentence.

_“I have loved you for so long and I am only sorry that I did not reveal my sincere respect and affection for you sooner. I should have told you and I should have shown you in every way that befits a gentleman, in every way that you deserve.”_

‘Did _I_ write this?’ he wondered, his eyes returning to the paragraph.

_“I know now that the timing of my request for your hand in marriage was unfortunate at best and insensitive at worst, and I truly apologise for that.”_

_‘_ Pfft! You can say that again!’ John jeered. ‘It was damned laughable in its lunacy!’

_“I see now that my sudden proposal must have appeared false and born of no more than duty, but it is not true, far from it. I wanted you to be my wife long before that.”_

‘Oh, now that is true!’ he proclaimed. ‘I even bought you a ring, Margaret! I know it was rash, but it sparkled so prettily…just like your eyes.’

_“I do confess that the riot did serve to reinforce my passion for you, because when I saw you lying on the ground, the depth of my feeling was intensified as my heart wrung with worry that I had lost you. Never in my whole life have I been so scared, for I could not bear the idea of a life without you, my beloved Margaret.”_

‘Well, yes, I mean, I thought you were dead. It really wasn’t ideal!’ John said, shaking his head. ‘Not the best way to start a marriage, to be sure!’

_“But I should not have been distant with you after that, for love is not shaken by tempests, but in contrast, is persistent and patient in the face of trials.”_

‘Oh! It’s that bloody bard again!’ John blustered. 'Why won’t he leave me alone?’

_“Then, there was what transpired last night. Margaret, my darling, I need you to believe me when I say that none of those vile things were true. They were all monstrous lies. You see, I saw the letter. I saw the one you had written to Henry Lennox.”_

‘The rogue!’ John growled.

_“But my sweet one, none of it was true. You do not mean nothing to me, God no! ─ you mean everything to me, more than any woman has ever meant anything to a man…I was not relieved that you said no, as I do not think a man has ever been more devastated by the rejection of a woman.”_

‘Hear, hear!’ he cheered. ‘Well said!’ Whoever had written this had done a thoroughly good job. John was sure that if Margaret could just read it, everything would be alright.

_“I want him to spend every day of the rest of your lives together showing you and telling you how much you mean to him. I expect no less of him than to commit his every waking moment to making you feel safe, appreciated, and cherished.”_

‘He better had!’ John snarled. ‘Or else he’ll have me to deal with!’

After he had finished reading his statement of love, John began to snatch up the rest of his rambling scraps of paper and peruse them curiously, wondering what other pearls of poetry lay hereabouts.

_“I’ll stand on your doorstep and knock and shout and be as stubborn as an ass until you talk to me!’_

‘What a good idea!’ he hailed.

_‘You have no right to be so cross with me, Margaret, my girl! You are the one who broke my heart when you refused my love, jilted me for another, and told me to never come to your house again! You made me fall in love with you, I’ll have you know, what with being so pretty, and principled, and annoyingly perfect! So, Miss Hale, you have no right to be offended when I say that I am completely and utterly in love with you!’_

‘That is very true!’ John concurred, hiccupping. ‘It’s her fault that I fell for her!’

_‘You, madam, are a spoiled brat and as tenacious as a mule! You are the most infuriatingly maddening person I have ever met, and you push me to the brink of insanity! You are opinionated, you are abrupt, you are haughty, and you are so damned beautiful! It is not fair!’_

John chuckled. ‘That will tell her!’

However, as he tried to survey the rest of his gibberish, it was no use, for it was too dark and his vision was too hazy. Instead, he decided that he was not finished with his candid remarks to his lady love, so, picking up a pen, he ventured to add a few more thoughts to his already catastrophic catalogue of declarations, smirking as he let his tongue run loose.

_Margaret, my love, you are the most gentle and generous woman that I have ever met, and I love you so much that I think I might be mad. Your hair smells like flowers and I just want to sink my nose into your luscious locks and breathe you in. You have the loveliest eyes I have ever seen, and I think they would look so wonderful on our babies. Your lips are so rosy, and I want to kiss you all the time. I think if I started kissing you, I would never stop, and I would never let you out of my arms ever again. I miss you dreadfully! I miss you most of all at night when I go to bed and you are not there ─ why are you not there? I also only think it right that you should know that I think you have the most pleasing backside and most perfect breasts I have ever seen. I know it is deplorably rude to say, but it is true. They are so magnificent that I think they should have been in that exhibition, as they are a wonder of the world. I love you so much, I just want to be allowed to love you and make love to you, my dearest and most darling Margaret._

_I miss you. I love you. I want you. I need you._

_Marry me, my beloved Margaret._

_Yours forever and always,_

_John_

With that, John triumphantly threw down his pen and sighed with satisfaction, pleased with his masterpiece of romantic brilliance. He was quite certain that Margaret would never have read anything quite like it. Perhaps in the south, men addressed their women with poetry, but here in the north, men got straight to the point. However, he knew he could never send it, for as much as he meant every absurd word, even in his drunken stupor, he appreciated that it was disgracefully lewd and impertinent. Sweet Margaret! She would most likely slap him across the face, scream at him, scold him for his scandalous crudeness, and sever all relations with him if she were ever to receive such an uncouth letter. No, he would destroy it immediately and never write such an appalling load of boorish balderdash ever again.

Nevertheless, John did not have much time to think on this, as he started to feel a fresh headache stir in his temple, one that threatened to crack his head into splinters. He knew that he needed to retire to bed as soon as possible, lest he lose his mind altogether. With a groan, he began to hurriedly gather up his bits of paper and commenced to stuff them into envelopes, hastily inscribing names and addresses on them, his hand both slapdash and slovenly in his tipsy state.

When he had finished, he reached into a drawer of his table and carefully took out a further two items. One was the yellow flower he had pressed into a book after visiting Helstone. When he collected it up, he also lifted the sheets of paper that were included with it, the list he had written on the train journey home, each entry a reason as to why he had fallen in love with Margaret Hale. The second item was one of her white silken gloves, as this had been an additional motivation for venturing downstairs tonight. Not that he would ever tell anyone, but John liked to keep her gloves near to him, especially at night, for he could not sleep soundly without holding them close to his chest for comfort. Placing the glove firmly into his pocket, he finished with his letters and then reeled away back down the hallway. 

Finally, once he reached a large table which sat near the front door, he hunted for a silver tray, which his large hand found and proceeded to smack, sending a loud clanging sound ringing into the air.

‘Shh!’ he shouted, rather boisterously, scolding the tray for its disruptive behaviour, that not only threatened to awaken his family and servants, but which also did nothing to help his splitting headache.

This platter was used by the household to leave all correspondence that was to either be hand delivered or sent to the post office. With a flick of his wrist, he absentmindedly tossed the letters onto the pile and stumbled away in search of his water.

However, if John had been more alert and in control of his faculties, he may have discerned that on top of the stack, he had placed a rather bulky parcel of paper, one that contained several pages of handwritten notes. Amidst them, was a single yellow rose, secreted and compressed amongst the layers of sentimental scribblings. Not that anyone in the household would detect or remark upon it the following day when the bundle of letters was sent to the post, but that one on the top, was addressed not to a bank or a business, but to a house not two miles from the mill, at the other side of Milton. Nor indeed would they realise that the sender had scrawled on the back, below the seal:

_To My Margaret,_

_From the one who loves you with all his heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so that was a bit silly and exaggerated, I know, but it was fun. This chapter was a shout out to Ella, my dear friend, and loyal reader/reviewer, who said she always wanted to have John have a drunk texting moment.
> 
> Thanks for all the encouragement in 2020, especially to those who have been faithful and kind reviewers, you know who you are! Remember that you can follow me @TheScribblerCMB on Twitter and Facebook. I can’t wait to see where all this takes me in 2021. Have a very wonderful New Year!


	23. THE DAWN OF A NEW DAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies, so bad news, I’ve hit a bit of a snag – boo! My faithful old laptop has died after many years of loyal service. Consequently, I have lost the second half of this chapter – booo!!!!! I’ll now have to hang off a few days before I can write anything else, while I wait for a new laptop to arrive. Anyway, after salvaging what remained of the chapter, I rescued it and hubby has kindly let me borrow his work laptop for a sec to post this half chapter, so you could at least have a little update to keep you going. Sorry, I know it’s a pain in the bum, but it ain’t my fault, technology has never been my friend. I’ll update the rest of the chapter/continue with the story asap, and in the meantime, I’ll have a much needed break, watch Sanditon again, eat too much chocolate, and stalk Leonardo DiCaprio…or Chris Hemsworth…or the Lego Batman…it depends how I feel. Take care and I’ll be back soon!

CHAPTER 23:

THE DAWN OF A NEW DAY

John opened his eyes.

As he craned his neck upwards and stared at the high ceiling of his chamber, he could see that the room was bathed in a pool of bright sunlight, the sovereign star spreading its arms cloaked in fine robes spun with threads of golden rays. It winked and waved at him, beckoning him to bask in the endless possibilities that were born in the genesis of this fresh morn. As the sun yawned into wake and shepherded in the dawn of a new day, John felt a strange sense of calm, something that he had not experienced in an awfully long time.

He was relieved to find that his headache was gone, a refreshing ripple of composure cleansing him, his astute wits restored and intact, a curious impression of promise budding and blossoming in his breast. However, rather than granting him peace, it brought him only pain, for he did not trust that happiness nor hope could be his, not now, not after yesterday.

After several minutes of lying on his back, John blinked and breathed deeply, willing himself to be brave. He let his nostrils fill with the aroma of the room, as he tried to detect even the faintest scent of what he was longing for, that hint of rosewater and pears. With his eyes still trained stalwartly on the ceiling, slowly, very slowly, he moved his hand to his side and permitted it to crawl away from him, checking for a dip in the mattress, for a clump of bedcovers, for an escalation in heat. With his fingers strained and splayed, John held his breath in suspense, every strand of his body on tenterhooks.

He did this every morning when he woke, praying that God would be merciful and she would be…

John turned his head and looked to his left, to the other side of the bed.

Then, he smiled.

…there.

John let his eyes drink in the beauty of her sleeping form. She was so lovely, so natural, so incredibly beguiling. She looked just like an angel who had floated down from Heaven and had fallen into a deep slumber after finding herself in the foreign realm of mortals. She lay on her side, facing him, her eyes closed, her hands cushioning her head, her breathing as quiet as a mouse. Her chestnut hair tumbled down wild and free over her shoulders and John marvelled at the paralleled finery and femininity of her unpinned locks, which made her appear so wonderfully soft. He liked to study her hair and had found that it was not merely brunette, but was a fascinating tapestry of brown, red and bronze, each shade entwined together in a braided weave of criss-crossed colours. John allowed his gaze to comb down to the ends of her russet curls, which fell down her back in a cascading mass, but a few stray wisps had escaped to her front, framing her flawless porcelain features. She was like an enchanting picture that John could stare at day after day, all day, and never tire of.

‘Margaret,’ he whispered, this single word uttered in awe, in reverence.

She was _here_.

With _him_.

Heaven be praised!

She was not always there when he woke up, but most days, she was, and on those treasured occasions, John thanked God for his compassion and charity in giving him the chance to be with his adorable girl, even for the briefest of moments. It was at times like this that he could pretend that Margaret really was _his_ Margaret. In this castle in the sky, she was Margaret Thornton, his wife, his world, his wish come true.

Cautiously, gradually, delicately, John shuffled closer to her, so that his face was mere inches from her own. With tender affection, he rubbed his nose against hers, careful not to disturb her dreams, which he was sure were charmingly sweet, just like her. He grinned as she wrinkled her nose and snuffled in her sleep, before sighing serenely and stretching, her arms extending above her head, and her legs lengthening down the mattress, her toes skimming his calf muscles, since he was so much taller than her. Every brush of her skin against his set John on fire, even the most innocent of touches, and he did not take a single instance of contact for granted, each one cherished and recorded in his memory for safekeeping.

God! How he loved her!

This was John’s favourite part of the day, waking up to find his darling Margaret slumbering by his side as if it were the most natural thing in all the world. He watched her for some time, the rhythmical rise and fall of her shoulders, the sweep of the curves of her neck, the fluttering of her lashes. He chuckled at the way she muttered funny little noises that made no sense whatsoever, but were each as captivating as a songbird’s melody, a peculiar sort of mating call, composed for attracting one particular mate, him.

At last, he could take it no longer, and John bumped his nose across her cheek, tracing a gentle path along the outline of her jaw, his senses itching at the thrill of her smooth contours. Then, pressing his impatient lips to her glowing skin, he peppered her face with featherlight kisses, willing her to open her eyes, so he could lose himself in their mesmerising magic and welcome her to this new day. With a moist caress, he anointed her nose, her chin, her forehead, her eyelids, even the lobes of her ears, every sweep of his lips an act of veneration.

After a while, his efforts were rewarded, because all at once, her eyelashes blinked open and her wide eyes regarded him. In that instant, he felt his soul spill over with love, and John knew that there was no hope for him, that he was lost to her forever, this woman, his treasure and his torment. At first, as always, Margaret looked somewhat confused to be there, with him, but then her serious expression would melt into a broad smile, a shy one that made his heart soar, and she would curl coyly and conceal her face in the pillow, too bashful to greet him. When she had first done this, he had been worried, anxious that she was upset to find herself in his bed, but he had learnt to be patient with her modest self-consciousness, and when she was ready, like a flower, she would open up to him, allowing him to soak up her radiant glory.

And, this morning, John was right, she did just that. After a minute, Margaret twisted her head and he chortled as one beady eye watched him reflectively. Finally, she slowly rolled over, so that she was facing him again, and with such uninhibited fondness that he had never thought humanly possible, Margaret reached out a hand to stroke John’s face, her fingers gliding across his stubble.

‘Good morning, you,’ he whispered, as he kissed each of her knuckles, one-by-one, his baritone burr gravelly with grogginess.

Margaret closed her eyes and hummed dreamily. ‘Good morning, you,’ she echoed, as cheerfully as a bird singing.

John edged nearer still and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. As if on cue, Margaret lifted her head just a tad, resting it on his chest, kneading it against him affectionately, rather like a kitten. As their hands snaked around each other, they hugged one another snugly, their limbs intertwined, sculpting them into a perfect ball of bliss.

However, even now, when they were like this, John was vigilant in not letting his eager hands wander where they should not. Despite the integrity of these encounters, he would not demean Margaret by taking advantage of her unknowing presence here. What she did not know would surely not hurt her, but no, he could not do it, he could not take liberties with the woman he loved and respected more than he could say. In her eyes, he may not be a gentleman, but he would darn well prove her wrong by showing that he could be chivalrous in his denial of his desires, choosing instead to be deferential to her needs and her needs alone.

Without question, these chance meetings would stay wholesome, unblemished by his base wants. So, as always, John never removed her nightdress, nor he his shirt. He did not fondle and lift the hem of her shift or scrape down her tantalising neckline so that he could stroke or see her hidden appeals. Again, when Margaret’s body was pressed up against his own as she lay in his arms, he always shielded her by guaranteeing that his lower half was kept well away from her. John never let his mind focus on the torturing sensation of her being so deliciously close and so delectably undressed. No, he never did anything to dishonour her, for his carnal cravings would never be permitted to corrupt her. Therefore, at all times, John made certain that his touch remained in harmless locations, always on her face, or her back, or her neck, or sometimes, her waist, but only if he did not grip too greedily.

Today, as he held her, John decided to place his left hand on her lower back and his right at the nape of her neck, where he tenderly massaged the tendrils of hair there, a smile curling the corners of his lips as he heard Margaret purr with appreciation. Feeling a sense of tranquillity wash over him as he felt her relaxing into his embrace, John rested his chin on the top of her head and breathed intensely, allowing the floral fragrance of her locks to fill his lungs and lull him into a state of euphoric calm and contentment.

Usually, when he woke to find her here, they would spend hours talking, just talking, well, and cuddling, of course. They had dedicated what felt like days to getting to know each other, asking questions and rejoicing in the intimacy of each other’s honest answers.

They had found out that her favourite colour was yellow, his blue, more specifically the hue of her eyes. Out of all the seasons, Margaret liked spring best, because of the budding optimism, the sprightly shift in the air, and all the new-born animals, with lambs and baby chicks bringing her the most joy. John said that he preferred autumn, most notably because of all the vibrant colours, and since he like the crisp chill in the air, as it made him feel alert, sharpening his senses. He described how his favourite periodic verses were about the time of year known as the Indian summer and the scholar in him could not bring himself to shake off the leaves of such a poetic season. It confirmed to Margaret that the pedantic master whose abacus brain was perpetually fixated with sums and statistics was susceptible to artistic tendencies after all.

Speaking of literature, it emerged that Margaret was fond of fiction, applauding the works of Eliot and Shelly in particular. John did not mind narratives, but his predilections in this field leaned towards Dickens and Hardy, their tales of resilience suiting both his mentality, as well as giving a strange sort of solace to the personal struggles of his early life. Still, John said that if he had the choice, he would typically select a tome of fact from his shelves, constantly starving to learn more about mathematics, engineering, commerce, the law, and philosophy. However, as Margaret pointed out, the latter was more conjecture than actuality, a statement that made John roar with laughter and question what her father would think of such a comment which practically blasphemed against the classics, which were, after all, as much Mr Hale’s bread and butter as cotton was to John. All the same, John stated that he did not care what the two of them read, so long as they could curl up together like cats in his trusty old reading chair located in the corner of his study. To him, as long as she was nestled on his lap, the couple could peruse any pages they fancied, whether that be prose, poetry, a periodical, or even a newspaper.

It turned out that even although Margaret was not keen on clambering out of bed, often having to be dragged from her cosy cocoon by an ill-tempered Dixon, when Margaret eventually did get up, she found that she was more of a morning person, a regular blackbird. Despite her aversion to ante meridiem, the young miss had found that her endeavours were considerably more fruitful before noon. In contrast, even though John was accustomed to being an early riser, he felt more on his toes at midnight, for it was during the small hours that he, ever the night owl, was the most productive.

When it came to animals, John advocated the qualities of cats, praising their guileful resourcefulness and appreciating the way they fended for themselves and never got underfoot. It seemed that the standoffish and independent personality of these shrewd creatures rather mirrored John’s own lack of sociability and his self-determining character. Nevertheless, Margaret soon shook her head at his poor judgment on this topic. To be sure, while she was fond of all animals, (apart from snakes), in the case of domesticated pets, she said that she valued dogs above all else, who were, after all, man’s best friend. She admired their devotion, their puckishness, and most of all, she liked the adorable way their tails wagged when they were happy, and John, in his besotted love for her, could not disagree with this sound argument.

In the end, they settled that if they were ever to have a home together, that they would compromise and have one of each, because as John pointed out, surely their children would revel in such an abundance of four-legged companions to play with. This startling remark made Margaret redden like a radish, since it was not usual to hear a man talk so openly or so enthusiastically about wanting a family. Even so, listening to such fatherly avowals escape John’s lips made her heart flutter like a butterfly and Margaret felt a stirring in her womb.

It also transpired that while John was partial to venison as his choice meat, he was most satisfied when Cook roasted a leg of mutton or beef. On the other hand, Margaret was as unconventional as ever, preferring chicken, even although it was not a common dish, due to the storage implications poultry induced. Regardless of this difficulty, John promised her that if she were ever to live in this house, she could have as much chicken as her heart desired, an odd offering of love indeed, but one that she was grateful for, nonetheless.

Dwelling on the subject of food and drink, the pair soon learnt that he would rather take coffee, while she found it terribly bitter, opting instead to drink tea. In fact, Margaret was scandalised to discover that John did not even like tea, not one bit, yet he still drank it as a social courtesy. What was more, John confessed that he had only consumed so much of the herbal blend whilst visiting the Hale’s home, because he prized the privileged opportunity of observing her pour it and took great pleasure in watching her tenacious bracelet slide up and down her arm. Margaret had guffawed and good-naturedly slapped him on the shoulder, censuring him for his silliness, but deep down, she had smiled at his mischievously romantic temperament, a quality that she had been blind to recognise in him before.

It also came to light that while Margaret would normally choose cake, John liked biscuits, especially when the rusks had been plunged and soaked in his coffee, leaving them soggy. Gingersnaps were his favourite, and it was through tête-à-têtes such as this that Margaret had found this out and so, unwittingly, that is why she had baked them for him on that fateful evening two moons ago.

However, their discussions were not limited to trifling trivialities, although, as Margaret vindicated, a truly intimate relationship was nurtured in the smallest details, and a man and woman could only hope to genuinely know each other if they knew the little things that made each other tick. All the same, their conversations did often wander to more meaningful subjects and, as they had rather suspected, while the two of them differed on more frivolous matters, when it came to those of great significance, they wholeheartedly concurred, revealing a sacred harmony between them. It was clear to both John and Margaret that they were forged of the same mind, the same heart, the same spirit, and the same soul, all of which beat as one.

To begin with, they both believed in God and that their faith should be at the centre of their conscience and all their conduct, the core of their character. Whilst John was more focused on living a life that was built upon the foundations of the principles of Christianity, Margaret held greater store by acts of service, saying that one could hardly call themselves a committed servant of the Lord if they ignored the plight of the poor.

This led to many debates over the importance of justification by the Word versus justification by works and their subsequent relevance to both sanctification and salvation, with many verses of scripture being quoted to support or rebuff the pair’s divergent opinions. But in the end, Margaret would not budge. She affirmed that one could not be saved by good deeds alone, but that Jesus died for the most wretched of all mankind, so, in turn, Margaret felt it her duty, nay, her honour to help the downtrodden in whatever humble ways she could. She reminded John that after all, Jesus was not only the King of Kings, there to represent the most high, but that he was also the Prince of Peace, born to rescue the broken and oppressed amongst us. So surely, he would want his disciples to encourage a spirit of goodwill amongst all men, even in the nineteenth century. After some time, she managed to convince John of the veracity of her point of view, meaning that they now sung from the same hymn sheet. But what was even more important, was that the stern master had to admit that he was so incredibly proud of his gentle and gracious girl who seemed to have more maturity and morality in her little finger than most had in their whole bodies.

Again, even although they both held many conservative values, they were each staunch supporters of the Whigs, trusting that liberal policies and doctrines were the only way to achieve a just social order. They both defended the need for universal suffrage, not only for men, but for women too. Here John promoted the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft and John Stuart Mill, maintaining that it was utterly nonsensical that women did not have the vote, especially given the fact that there were more of them then men, due to the number of wars that had depleted his sex with senseless fatalities. What was more, he maintained that women would be far more sensible with their ballot, as they would not focus on business alone, but would be motivated by more decent values, such as the welfare of humanity. Indeed, while women were concerned with the moral fibre of society, men seemed only engrossed by the much more miserly vice of materialism. However, since women were not yet emancipated, John pledged that whenever he voted in the future, he would share his electoral right and voice with Margaret and that she would be permitted to shape his decision, for it would be a joint one.

They both adamantly upheld the ruling that slavery should be abolished and that it was the ethical duty of all governments and nations to eradicate it without question. They agreed that both boys and girls should be educated equally and that members of the fairer sex were not inferior to their male counterparts in any way, shape, or form. This filled Margaret with both relief and an overwhelming respect for John, who she was finding more broad-minded than she could ever have imagined.

Nevertheless, what warmed her heart more than anything was when John had suddenly gazed at her with the most astonishing sincerity, before thanking her. She had been surprised by his unexpected words of gratitude, but John had explained that he would not have carried many of these beliefs, or perhaps he would not have clung to them so resolutely if it had not been for her and her clever, compassionate, charitable, and courageous heart. And, with that, Margaret had blushed and fluttered into John’s arms, making the circle of those brawny limbs her home.

Day after day, they remained like this for some time, warm, cosy, simply glad to be together, and today was no different. Still, on this particular morning, John was roused from his thoughts as she snuggled further into his embrace, the crest of her hair tickling his throat.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked blearily. ‘Is your headache better?’

‘Aye,’ he snorted with incredulity. ‘It is a miracle. I have never drunk so much in all my life. In fact, I don’t think anyone has ever drunk that much – ever!’ he chuckled. ‘I swear I shall never do so again; I regret it bitterly. What a damned fool I was!’

‘Then why did you?’ she mused, her fingers raking through his thick, black mane, the sensation making him rumble with satisfaction, as John dipped his head back, relishing in the sensitive scratch of her fingernails.

‘I was depressed, darlin’,’ he replied honestly, nuzzling his nose against her eyebrow, and leaving a mild peck there.

She furrowed her temple. ‘Why?’

‘Because of you,’ he said frankly, always willing to speak candidly, if not a mite bluntly. ‘I was devastated about that letter you sent, love. The one where you asked me to stay away. It broke my heart,’ he admitted.

Margaret hid her head in the crook of his neck and John could feel her hands stiffen on his forearms, her grip taut around his muscles. ‘I’m sorry,’ she snivelled timidly. ‘I had no idea you would care so much. I did not think you would mind being separated from me.’

‘I do!’ John retorted, as he spread the fingers of one hand across the base of her spine so that he could haul her closer still. With the other hand, his fingers twisted her ringlets round and round his digits and gently tugged at her scalp, since he knew she liked it when he did that.

‘How can you doubt it?’ he murmured; his mouth so close that his breath tickled her inner ear. ‘How can you not know how desperately I long to be near you? To be with you? I need it! I need to be close to you, _always_ , or else I cannot survive!’ he tried to explain, restless for her to understand.

Then, taking her face in his hands, John tilted it so that he could gaze into the bewitching lakes of her bluey-green orbs. ‘Margaret?’ he began, his timbre husky, his thumbs skimming her cheekbones. ‘How can you not know how madly in love with you I am?’ he asked in amazement, his heart thudding in his chest, so hard that he feared his ribs might crack.

Margaret looked up at him, her soft eyes so very sad. Her eyes were always irresistibly alluring with affection first thing in the morning, and it made every nerve in John’s body thrill with praise for this caring creature who threatened to overwhelm him with her perfection.

‘But…how can I know?’ she answered plainly. ‘You told me you did not love me, that I mean nothing to you,’ she went on, her tone betraying her hurt, those dear eyes brimming with unshed tears. ‘What do you expect me to think when you are so harsh with me, Mr Thornton? How can I possibly think you love me _now_?’

John groaned like a wounded animal and towed her tight to him, so close that their clothed bodies moulded together, with every rise and fall of their figures locking as one. He felt his heart weep as he sensed her shake in his grasp, her petite frame shivering against his powerful one, and he could not bear to think that he had made her cry. All he wanted to do was to protect her, to reassure her, since John was convinced that God had created him for the sole purpose of loving Margaret.

‘Margaret, my darling,’ he murmured fervently, ‘I love you more than life itself! I did not mean any of those things, you must know that, deep down, you _must_! You must have seen the truth in my eyes, my dear, dear girl. I was just hurt about… _that_ letter…the one to _him_ …why wouldn’t you tell me of it?’ John questioned; his northern tenor rendered dense by his frantic plea.

‘Why keep such a thing secret? Was it to spare my pride? To spare me any further pain? Why won’t you tell me the truth of what it means?’ John appealed, his cobalt eyes searing with the coals of anguish, with the inferno of his personal purgatory.

‘Put me out of my misery. Tell me, has he secured your affections? Is there no hope for me? For _us_?’ he implored, pulling back so that he could look at her more clearly, those same eyes now glistening with longing, and it cut her like a spear to the soul.

But Margaret merely shook her head. ‘I cannot tell you,’ she replied meekly.

‘Why not?’ he scoffed, sagging under the weight of his distress.

He could not suffer her denial, her refusal to satisfy his insatiable need for answers. John rested his head on her stomach and caressed the material of her gown, his persecuted mind imagining all the babies that she could carry there, his babes, their little ones, so many tiny, treasured Thorntons, all evidence of his passion and devotion for her.

Staring down at his defeated form, Margaret placed her hand on his shoulder and patted it soothingly, wishing she could save him from his misery, but alas, she could not, for such a gift was not hers to give. No, only _she_ could both confront and comfort him with the truth, and since _she_ was not here, there was nothing this Margret could do.

With absolute solemnity, she stated: ‘Mr Thornton, if you want to know, then you must ask _me_.’

John slumped and his shoulders wilted as he exhaled heavily. ‘I _cannot_ , you will not see me.’

‘Try,’ she urged.

‘No!’ he asserted, shaking his head. ‘It hurts too much! To see you and not have you, it is like a knife to my heart. And then it hurts not to see you,’ he contemplated, snorting at the insanity of it all. ‘I cannot bear to be rejected again; it would kill me,’ he tallied, settling his head against her chest so that he could hear the calming rhythm of her heart, the only constant thing left in his life, that steady dum-da-dum-da-dum.

‘No, after all that I have said and done, I am too ashamed to go to you. I…I am not worthy, Margaret.’

She threaded her fingers through his hair and planted a soft kiss there. ‘Why?’ she asked quietly, at a loss to comprehend why he would not fight for her.

‘Where to start?’ John huffed, his lungs heaving. ‘That appalling proposal. My cold behaviour ever since. My bestial shouting at you two nights ago. The lies I told you. The thoughts I’ve had about your bod…the thoughts I’ve had, they are…wrong, my love. Even this, here, having you with me now, it is selfish. You would not like it. _No_ ,’ he grunted, ashamed of himself. ‘I want to see you, so much, but you are better off without me, you are better off with a man who deserves you.’

Taking his head decisively in her hands like he had done moments before, Margaret clasped his solid head in her diminutive hold. Leaning her forehead against his, she sighed: ‘But what if I _do_ want you… _John_?’

John felt himself buckle as if she had just punched him in the gut, the blow smashing his spleen to smithereens. He whimpered pathetically. He could not endure to hear her speak his Christian name. It was so lyrical coming from her velvety lips. The sound of it drove him into a strange sort of madness, wrenching him mercilessly between gratification and grief.

‘Don’t say that!’ he begged, his tremulous hand cupping her cheek. ‘Just… _don’t_. I cannot stand it, my darling. _Please_ , I know you mean well, I know you only wish to console me, but it is cruel to taunt me thus.’

Shuffling closer, Margaret arranged herself against him. John inhaled sharply as he felt the curve and weight of her breasts graze his torso and the silkiness of her slender legs and hips chafe against his knees and thighs. He could feel his muscles hardening in response and he scrunched his eyes closed, pleading for these tempting thoughts to subside, concerned that he may forget himself and lose control. Margaret did not know what she was doing to him, bless her, and he would not tell her, lest he shock and shame her. However, none of that mattered, as any animal appetites that may be rising to the surface were soon quelled by the endearing entreaty in her face, as she fixed her eyes on his, incarcerating him in a hypnotic trance.

‘Kiss me,’ she said, at last, the request floating out of her and hanging in the air.

John gulped.

Her words were half an invitation, half a demand. Much to his surprise, she did not sound nervous, not in the least, instead, Margaret sounded steadier and more confident than he had ever known her.

John let his gaze fall upon her lips and his breath hitched, catching in his throat. They were so full, so rosy, so luscious, faintly parted, welcoming his fevered touch. He reached out warily and with a trembling thumb, John brushed the pouting pertness of those moist petals, the feel of which rendered him wild, almost like a feral beast demented by desire. He leaned in closer, her hot, anticipating breath delighting his skin and making the hairs on his neck bristle, each strand yearning for her. Despite the virtue of her entreaty, John could feel the sinful and seductive pull of it, the promise of her enticing him into a nightmarish fantasy of his obsessive want, no, his need for this goddess.

As his arms wound further around her, he impulsively moved, so that without meaning to, he had almost rolled on top of her, his body pinning hers down. However, as he realised this, John was struck by the innocent way in which Margaret had let herself slide under him, his body both her shield and her cage. It was inconceivable, incredible even, but she did not seem to mind, and this took John’s breath away, his lungs gasping for air, leaving him grunting amidst a series of gruff groans.

Instead of being frightened or offended, Margaret merely draped her arms around his neck and gently tugged him tighter, and, to his sheer disbelief, her legs parted, instinctively, independently, just ever so slightly, permitting him to nestle himself between them. It did not feel wrong, but so unreasonably right, _too_ right. Nevertheless, what astounded him the most, was the way she looked at him. There was no insult, or panic, or embarrassment, just one thing: trust.

John shook, his body shuddering from tip to toe.

Then, in response, little by little, bit by bit, he dropped his head and shut his eyes, readying himself for the enchantment of their first kiss. But as he found his lips millimetres from her own, he stopped. John stayed there for some time, frozen, rigid, his heart pounding, his breathing ragged.

At long last, he shook his head. ‘I cannot,’ he cursed, panting.

He could feel her quivering beneath him, and it threatened to tear him to shreds, knowing that she was disappointed, that she longed for him, almost as ardently as he coveted her. It was too much! The downright agony of his ache for her burnt and blistered every fibre of his being. John knew that it would not be long before it was scorched beyond restoration, but he did not care, not one bit, for his body was a temple of worship surrendered to her, and Margaret could do with it as she damn well pleased.

‘Why not?’ she asked with a whine.

He rested his lips against her own, his teeth softly nipping her flesh, for he was dying to nibble her. However, it did not matter that his lips ghosted hers and he could taste the sweet paradise of her pouting mouth, he would not sanction crossing that forbidden boundary….no matter how tempting.

‘You know why,’ he said finally, his voice strangled.

‘Tell me,’ Margaret beseeched.

John moved his mouth and concealed it in her hair as he attempted to find relief in the consolation of her embrace. He swallowed thickly as he sensed her arms enveloping his torso, coming to rest on his spine. John braced himself as the muscles of his broad back all flexed in unison, each grappling in a frantic bid to feel the holy brush of her fingertips.

‘I can never kiss you…not properly. _Never_ ,’ he hissed, his teeth ever so tenderly biting the apple of her cheek. Oh God! – he savoured the taste of her. John moaned as the sweet juices of her skin seeped into his mouth and stimulated his taste buds, the flavour of Margaret’s nectar ripping his restraint to pieces. ‘If I try, then the spell is broken. You know it is, my angel.’

Margaret sniffed and he could feel the dampness of tears as they trickled down her cheek. ‘It might not be today,’ she sobbed.

‘It will!’ he insisted, drying her tears with his bristles, which he sensitively sketched along her jaw.

‘Besides, darling, it is not right. I _want_ to kiss you. I want to hold you. I want to have you. I want to let my lips, my mouth, my tongue explore every last inch of you. I want to make love to you; you know I do. I want to know you in every possible way. I want you to be mine and mine alone, just as I am yours, only yours, _always_. I want to stay here in this bed, in this moment, with you, forever. But I cannot,’ he acknowledged with the agony of an arrow that pierced his heart, which screamed out in protest at his withholding of its lone request.

‘It is not right. It is not fair on you, I cannot take such liberties with my love without your consent, I won’t do it!’

Margaret slipped out from under him and spun onto her back, it now being her turn to stare at the ceiling. ‘I understand,’ she snuffled, her regret palpable.

It was strange, because no matter how many times they had this conversation, her discontent never seemed to dwindle and she was always left frustrated by her desperate want of him, the pining in her soul that could not be appeased.

John just lay there and watched her, helplessly, his eyes heavy with sadness, since there was nothing he could do. Lord help him, there was nothing he wished for more than to scoop her up into his arms, hold her tight, soothe her sorrows, and make her his, giving in to the hunger that he harboured in his heart. He wanted to unite with her, so that they would become as one, by the sacredness of the flesh, the law, the essence of romance, and by the sanctity of God.

But it was not to be.

In the end, Margaret was the one who always rallied, the first one to change the subject. Today, she forced herself to wear a forged smile and then cheerfully chirped: ‘Well then, Mr Thornton, is it not time you got up and went to work?’

John grumbled and scrubbed at his weary eyes. ‘I don’t want to. Damn the mill! I don’t care about it anymore. I just want to be here, with you,’ he griped petulantly, burying his head in the pillow, and covering her with one of his hairy arms, ensuring that she could not escape.

Margaret giggled. ‘You cannot stay here with me forever,’ she tutted.

‘Then come with me,’ he suggested.

‘Oh, ho-ho! I do not think so! That would be a comical sight for your workers, and they would think you quite out of your mind. No, I shall either distract you from dawn to dusk ─’

‘You do anyway,’ he cut in, clutching her hand. ‘You always distract me, morning, noon and night. I can’t think of anything but you. No matter what I am doing or where I am at, all I think of is you, so you may as well come with me,’ John pleaded, although she noted the humorous smirk coiling his lips.

‘I shall either distract you,’ Margaret continued, ignoring his interruption. ‘Or else people will think the Master of Marlborough Mills has lost his marbles. No, you must go,’ she contended, pointing towards the door. ‘Now! Away with you! I command it!’ Margaret teased, knowing that he liked it when she issued him orders. ‘Besides, my boy, I think today is going to be a rather special day and you do not want to miss even a second of it moping around in bed, heartbroken over me.’

‘You always say that!’ John groused. ‘You and your infuriating optimism. I do not think today will treat me well. How can it after all the catastrophes of the past two days? It was a tragedy of Greek proportions, my girl!’ he exclaimed, covering his face with his hands, sighing at the memory of it all. 

‘Besides, I have a horrible feeling niggling away at the back of my mind that I did something stupid last night,’ he ruminated, his brow creased in contemplation. ‘But for the life of me, I cannot think what. I just hope that whatever it is, it does not come back to sting me,’ he concluded with a frown.

‘Well, I do not know about that, but I will have no more of your grumpiness, John Thornton! I will not allow it!’ Margaret decreed in her most regal tone. ‘I honestly believe that today is the first day of the rest of your life. Go now, shoo!’ she laughed, chasing him away as she filched the bedclothes from around his warm figure and forcefully kicked him out of the bed.

John chuckled in turn and made to grab her, and he growled playfully, pretending to punish her for her insubordination. They both fell into a fit of giggles, rendering them as giddy as schoolchildren. At long last, they looked each other in the eye, the light of joy streaming from their frisky orbs.

Margaret gazed at him in awe, as she placed her hand on his jaw, her fingers idly outlining the grooves of his weathered dermis, trekking the ligaments of his strong throat, and toying with his Adam’s apple. As her fingertips dipped into the dimples of his cheeks, she felt herself swoon at the sight of his smouldering smile, one that promised to steal her heart and never give it back.

‘I like it when you smile,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You are so handsome when you smile, quite adorable. Why do you not smile at me more?’

John was about to respond, but she went on: ‘You always look so cross when you are around me. It is almost as if you are…displeased or…dismayed…dissatisfied with me…disappointed in me,’ she finished, her grin sinking into something excruciatingly sad.

John’s smile faltered into a scowl, a flash of affliction flickering behind his stony eyes. If only she knew that was exactly how she made him feel, that he was never good enough for her. However, there was no way that he felt that way about Margaret.

‘I _do_ want to,’ he claimed, his gullet clogged with desolation. ‘Margaret…I want to smile at you all the time, but I am just…’

‘Scared,’ they both finished together, their eyes meeting and their souls conveying a thousand truths.

In that moment, without uttering another word, they both understood each other completely. They wanted each other, so desperately, but they were both scared. But of what? Rejection? Hurt? Downfall? Humiliation? Who knows? Or perhaps they did know, for deep down, they were mutually scared of the same thing. They feared that if they were allowed to be together, they would find not dissatisfaction, no, but unadulterated contentment, a pleasure that was so pure, that it would almost be unbearable in its joy. And this…their capacity for happiness is what scared them the most, because now they knew the truth, the idea of living without it, without each other, was a fate worse than death.

For what felt like hours, they both did not make a sound, simply staring at each other, lost in their own little sphere of hallowed silence. In this world, they expounded nothing but expressed everything, an exchange that neither you nor I could ever hope to know or understand, for it was personal, it was private, it was precious, belonging to just two people, John Thornton and Margaret Hale. 

In the end, John bowed his head towards hers and with a voice as tender as can be, he murmured: ‘Alright, sweetheart, I shall try one more time.’

With that, he inched his lips ever closer to hers, the honeyed sweetness of her mouth inviting him, lulling him, claiming him as its captive.

‘Remind me again…why does it not work?’ she rasped.

‘Because, Margaret, my love…,’ John replied, the edge of his lips _just_ touching the tip of her own.

But then, suddenly, John opened his eyes.

Cold.

Dark.

Alone.

‘…you are not real,’ he ended with a wretched whisper.

She was gone.

As John stared out into the gloomy bleakness of his lonely bedroom, he clutched the pillow in his arms tighter, drawing it into his chest. It still felt warm. If he tried hard, he could swear that he could even smell the scent of her on it…flowers…and pears.

The room was pitch black, seeing as it was as good as night outside. Of course it was, it was winter, and he rose early for work, how stupid to think that it could be sunny and bright. If he strained his eyes, he could almost believe that he could make out the jade green of his wallpaper and the golden gilding of the borders, decor that he had once hated, but now, it reminded him of Helstone. So, naturally, it made him think of her, and it was a bittersweet torment to sleep surrounded by such depictions of Heaven on Earth, the place where his Margaret had grown from a girl to a woman, the lady he now loved and, by his own failures, he had lost.

His head hurt. His body felt hefty. His mind was hazy. His limbs were heavy. His heart was howling. But still, John remained motionless, all his momentum and motivation snatched away by the disappointment of waking to find that it had all been a dream, yet again. It was always a fantasy, never a fact, and that made John more angry than anything.

Snarling into the frigid air that surrounded him, he cussed the dawn of this new day, the day that held no potential or purpose for him.

‘Damn you!’ he scourged.

But, as the mill master dragged himself out of his bed, little did John know how wrong he was. For, despite his unrelenting pessimism, it would turn out that with fourteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, and eleven seconds to go until _she_ was finally _his_ , today was in fact… _the day._


	24. COUNTDOWN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Three cheers, we are back in business! This is the first piece of literature that has been typed on my new laptop, happy days! Thanks for all the very kind and constructive comments on the last chapter, especially the detailed ones, they were very much appreciated. Okay, so I have some good and bad news. The good news is that the full and final angst chapter has been written, yayh! But the bad news is that me being me, it was farrr too long, so I’ve decided to split it like I did with Pandora’s Box. Don’t be mad, it just gives you more story to enjoy. I’m posting this first half today and will proofread the last half over the next couple of days and post it later this week, so there is something to look forward to. After that, we can all enjoy a few fluffy chapters.
> 
> For anyone who is interested, one reader has kindly sent one of their lovely pieces of artwork into my FB page. It is a picture that shows John and Margaret’s fingers brushing and is very sweet. You can see it at: TheScribbler_CMB. Also, I’ve stuck up a little discussion asking whether that finger brush was intentional on John’s part or not, so do come and have your say.
> 
> Lastly, I want to send my best wishes to all readers during these difficult times. I know for those of you like me in the UK, life is complex just now with our intermittent and extended lockdowns. And of course, in the USA, you’ve had a stressful couple of weeks and this week you have your presidential inauguration, so I wish you all the best with that. So, to all of you, no matter where you are, take care, enjoy this chapter, the second half will be out soon, and then it’s all rainbows and sunshine from then on…maybe even a unicorn if you’re lucky.

CHAPTER 24:

COUNTDOWN

_0.0273972603 of a year._

_0.328766763 of a month._

_1.4285714286 weeks._

_10 days._

_240 hours._

_14,400 minutes._

_864,000 seconds._

That is how long it was until Margaret Hale and John Thornton would become husband and wife, united as one in the holy trinity of the flesh, the law, and the spirit, married, at last.

But, for now, their love was still divided by their obliviousness of each other’s feelings, by their stubbornness in refusing to go to their lover and confess all, by their fear of being rejected yet again, and by the gulf of twelve hours.

To be sure, 12 hours, 720 minutes, and 43,200 seconds still had to be endured in ignorance, in hopelessness, until their sorrow at the hands of this sorry saga was finally laid to rest once and for all.

Only then, when there were no more days, no more hours, no more minutes, and no more seconds left, would all the pieces of this fractured puzzle join as one, and they would be able to see the picture clearly, and their world would finally be made whole. As the clock struck the fateful hour of eight this very night on the 28th of February 1851, all wrongs would be made right. They would ultimately be in the same place at the same time, they would at long last be in each other’s arms, they would profess their feelings, they would become engaged, and, in the end, they would no longer be just Miss Hale and Mr Thornton, but Margaret and John, stepping together into their very own happily forever after.

But, for now, they each had to linger in the limbo of their witlessness, awaiting zero hour as the clock commenced its countdown, for there were still those twelve contemptuous hours to go…

* * *

Margaret opened her eyes.

She blinked. She startled. She was confused.

Lifting her head, she glanced around at her surroundings.

Hmm.

She was in bed, _her_ bed, in _her_ house.

She was where she should be.

But surely…had she not just been…?

Sitting up, Margaret creased her brow and crinkled her nose, as was her custom when she was deep in contemplation. Her body felt oddly warm, oddly tingly, oddly alert. She hugged a pillow close to her chest, something she often found herself doing these days, but why, she could not deduce.

She sniffed. She sneezed. She started.

If Margaret bent her head and concentrated extremely hard indeed, then she could aver that she could smell a strangely familiar aroma, one she had come to consider the most appealing of fragrances, almost like an opium that lulled her into a blissful euphoria. Breathing in, she felt giddy as a pleasant perfume wafted up her nostrils and filled her lungs. She could sense the heady bouquet of…soap…and soot…and smoke…with just a hint of…what was that...loom oil?

It smelt like…Margaret’s breath hitched, and she halted, the pillow clasped tight, her chest pressed firmly against the crisp cotton linen, her breasts rising and falling, chafing against the material that may very well have been manufactured in this very town, in a mill, at…

A lady of fine breeding would surely drop the obscene object at once, if not throw it away altogether, for she would be scandalised by the indecent fantasies flitting through her maidenly mind. However, Margaret, ever the irregular young miss, did not shy away from the cushion which mysteriously contained the essence of somebody both specific and significant, but rather, she hugged it snugger, squeezing it possessively, as she nudged her porcelain cheek against the goose feather padding, trying to extract every last sniff of comfort out of it.

Caressing the precious item, Margaret jumped. She had the most disconcerting feeling that she could feel something, a nose maybe, nuzzling the back of her neck and a scrape of teeth nipping at her skin with tantalising tenderness. She let out an involuntary moan, her eyes fluttering closed, her head dipping back, her toes curling, her body responding in a way that she could not fathom.

Margaret peeked to her left and then to her right, examining the perimeter of her small, single bed. There was hardly space for another person, let alone a terribly large one, but still…

She looked again. Left. Up. Right. Down. Even diagonally.

Nobody was there.

But she could have sworn that… _he_ …

With timid uncertainty, Margaret slowly tilted her head and peered up at the ceiling. However, she then blinked in bewilderment, for this was surely not the same ceiling that she had been staring at just moments before. That one was higher, it was broader, it was paler, with its whitewashed lacquer, so, where had it gone?

Margaret shook her head. No. She was being silly. She was tired. She was harassed. Her mind had been overcome with discord of late, so there was no wonder she was a little distracted and disorientated, it was to be expected. She had been imagining things. Inappropriate things, indecorous things…intriguing things.

All the same, despite her verdict of stress, a lack of sleep, and strife being the root of her fanciful delusions, this was not the first time that Margaret Hale had woken up feeling convinced she was not alone and there was something deeply unsettling about it, not least because she found herself strangely disappointed to find that she was, in fact, very much alone.

Margaret stretched, her arms extending high above her head and her feet lengthening down the bed. A second later, she jerked and let out a shriek as she felt her toes brush against something. It was long, it was thick, it was hairy, and it definitely did not belong to her. A leg? Lifting her bedclothes, Margaret inspected what lay beneath, but she promptly dropped the coverlets and rebuked herself for being so ridiculous, because, of course, there was nothing hidden away there, just her own slender legs.

Oh, but…

Placing a hesitant hand by her side, she allowed it to sneak away from her, checking for…she was not sure…a sag in the mattress? A bundle of covers? A rise in heat? A human form? A man? A… _him_?

If she shut her eyes, Margaret could see a room with jade green wallpaper and golden edging. She could hear a rich baritone laugh, one that reverberated around the chamber and made every thread of her nerves tingle. She could smell men’s shaving cream and cologne, mingled with the faint whiff of shoe polish. She could feel the touch of a head of hair, bushy in its abundance, sliding through her fingers like silken reeves, whilst a prickly, bristly scrape of skin scratched along her cheek. She could taste a sharp, bitter tang, almost like an aftertaste that was fading, somewhat resembling a pungent alcohol that lingered on the breath. She could see a broad, bright smile and a set of brilliant white teeth, a grin that gazed upon her with adoration. She could hear the rumble of machines in the distance and the din of energetic activity. She could smell the odour of a peculiar combination of suds and sweat, it smacked of a well washed man who was no stranger to toil, a scent that was not disagreeable, but in contrast, was scrumptiously soothing. She could feel the touch of a sturdy, rugged, and shaggy arm encircling her petite body, tugging her close. She could taste ─

Margaret gasped and her eyes flew open.

Her fingers unconsciously darted to her mouth and gently fondled the smooth skin she found there, the virgin petals of her lips.

She could taste…peaches…she could feel…soft…warm…reassuring…satisfying…oh my! ─ lips!

Margaret’s eyes widened into great pools of bluey-green wonderment. Then, with a bizarre kind of boldness, she began to play with her lips. She licked them. She sucked them. She bit them. She stroked them. She was trying to understand where that flavour, that texture, where they came from. It was foreign, she knew that much. It was not of her, not from her mouth, that was for certain. It came from elsewhere, from someone altogether distinctive. Whoever it was, she could sense their strength, their sweetness, their sensitivity, their…she panted…their seductive attraction. 

‘Oh!’ Margaret exhaled, as a reverie flickered through her mind, one of a man placing his lips against hers and then ever so lightly, pressing down to…oh, help! ─ to kiss her.

But then…no, it was gone, the vision was over, vanishing into the void of nothingness, no more than a dream.

Sinking back into her pillows, Margaret pulled her bedclothes up around her and huddled under the safety of her blankets, disturbed by the burning sensation that surged through her body and titillated uncharted territories of her person. It made no sense, she did not understand it, but all the same, she liked it, she did not want it to go away, and that left her both a little perplexed and infinitely more perturbed.

It was strange, because Margaret could have sworn that she had not slept in this bed last night. But she must have, she remembered retiring there early in the evening after her mother had insisted that she take advantage of some sorely needed rest and restoration. Yet, after shutting her eyes that had drooped with weariness, she could have sworn that she had been in another bed altogether.

And…what was more…she had not been alone.

He liked blue. He liked coffee. He liked autumn. He liked factual books. He liked venison. He liked night-time. He liked cats. He liked Thomas Hardy. He liked biscuits. He liked her bracelet.

How did she know what _he_ liked?

But that was not all she knew about him, about Mr Thornton.

She knew that Mr Thornton’s favourite meal of the day was breakfast and that he ate a feast of kippers, sausages, bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and black pudding every Sunday, he heartily looked forward to it. He wished he could dance with more skill, but he felt he was not very good at it, often feeling ungainly in his inelegance, so he tried to avoid standing up with a partner as much as possible, often struggling to hide in corners of dance halls, an exercise that was not easy given his height. His preferred paper was The Times, but in private, he was partial to a copy of Punch, as he found the pictures entertaining in their satirical scrutiny and accuracy. That was probably because he liked to illustrate, he was an excellent artist, a dexterity developed over many years of drafting technical drawings of the factory. Furthermore, unknown to anyone else, over the past few months, he had sketched many pictures of her, each one concealed amongst some mill documents in a locked desk drawer. He mostly slept on his back, but he made funny snoring noises when he rolled onto his tummy, his body spread out like a pancake, his long limbs jutting out and filching every spare inch of space.

Mr Thornton had a scar just below his left ear from when he had first shaved, aged twelve. He had another wound on his right wrist where he had been slashed by a machine, aged twenty-three. There was also his creaking jaw from when a cotton bale had tumbled off its cart and smacked him in the face, cracking his mandible, aged twenty-nine, seven months ago, weeks after she had arrived in Milton. All the same, John had not disclosed to Margaret that the reason why he had been so distracted was because he had been thinking about her, brooding over the dire difference of opinion and falling-out they had shared when he had first taken tea at her home. Of course, Margaret could not forget his cut hand that she had bandaged two days ago, even although she could not work out the where, when, what or why of how that injury had occurred, only that it had not been like that when she had gone to speak with him in his office.

Margaret knew that John ─ Mr Thornton, that is, was most sensitive behind his knees and if she skimmed her toes there, he would laugh uncontrollably, that is, until he tickled her back in turn, his strength giving him an unfair advantage over his giggling adversary, who he usually pinned down and admonished by peppering her face with kisses. She knew that he longed to kiss her, to hold her, to touch her, to make lo ─

‘No!’ Margaret suddenly cried, sitting bolt upright. No, this would not do, not do at all.

Rising from her bed, Margaret moved purposefully towards her desk, her bare feet padding along the wooden floor and sending a shiver up her shins. Sitting down on the spindly chair, she paused and pondered. Then, nodding her head, she knew what she had to do. With resolute action, she retrieved a sheet of paper and rested it squarely in the centre of her desk at a perfect and precise angle.

_Dear…_

Margaret faltered and considered how to address him, but as a flash of courage flickered in her fearless spirit, she decided to be forthright, for she need not be a coward, not here, not in the cloistered safety of her bedroom where he could not reach her. Nevertheless, as she thought this, she felt a hot breath delight her ear and Margaret gasped. But she did not look round, she refused to, she would not give in to this foolish fiction that played havoc with her fractious mind. Taking a deep breath, she let her pen meet with paper and Margaret began to write, not stopping to consider a single syllable, just allowing every word to flow freely.

_Dear John…_

After half an hour of restless and relentless scribbling, Margaret finally finished her testament to Mr Thornton, her account of everything that had passed between them. Heaving a sigh of relief, she laid down her pen, sat back, and stared at the parchment.

‘That’s better,’ she approved, feeling a sense of peace settle over her.

Margaret had made up her mind to compose a letter to Mr Thornton, not herself knowing that letters had become a prevalent theme, a topic, a source of torment for all the players of her own humble story over the past two days. She did not realise that the simple act of writing down one’s thoughts and feelings and sharing them with another, (or, in many cases, not sharing them), had caused so much turmoil, so much tension, so much needless trouble.

Margaret had wanted to record her side of what had happened, and she had done it without shying away from the truth. She told him that she had put herself in harm’s way to shield and save him from the rioters, stressing that she would not have acted so instinctively if it had been any other man. Margaret revealed how sorry she was that she had refused Mr Thornton’s proposal of marriage. She divulged that she had not meant all the spiteful vilifications she had hurled at him that day. Margaret disclosed to him that she had been devastated by his words to her two nights ago, that it had broken her heart in more ways than she could have ever thought possible. She explained to Mr Thornton that she had not wished to use her father as an unwitting envoy, asking him to stay away, but that Margaret had believed she had no choice.

She declared that she did not want to be parted from him, never, but that it hurt too much to see him, to be near him, and yet to be separated from him by the division of his disdain for her. Margaret could not stand it. She told him why she cared for him. She said that he was kind, valiant, handsome, clever, generous, principled, gentle, interesting…her list went on. She confessed that she loved him, that she missed him, that she wanted him, that she needed him. However, she then informed Mr Thornton that she hoped that he would be happy with Miss Latimer, although Margaret had felt her hand shaking as she scrawled this last detail. But last, and not least, Margaret had written:

_I wish you well, Mr Thornton. Even although I may not be granted the honour of being your wife, of passing through life by your side, of having you as a most cherished husband, I will forever respect and hold you in the highest regard. I love you, John, always and forever._

_I wish you well._

_I am yours and yours alone,_

_Margaret._

There, it was done.

Nonetheless, as Margaret folded the piece of paper and held it in her hands, she knew that she would not send it. Of course she could not even entertain the idea of posting it. He would not accept it. It was not the sort of correspondence a young, unmarried lady sent to a man. He would be unequivocally appalled and affronted by it, and she could not bear that, to have the raw sentiments of her heart exposed, ridiculed, and mocked. No, she had never planned to send it. She had never intended for him to receive it. This was private, just for her, a personal testimony. It was an outpouring of her emotions. It was a cleansing, something meant to purify her of these bottled-up feelings that plagued her soul. No, she would not send it. She would keep it, but she would conceal it out of sight, out of reach, and she would never think of it again. Nevertheless, just imparting those few honest words, that inundation of feeling was enough, they _had_ to be sufficient, she had no alternative, for that was all the resolution she was entitled to, the only expression Margaret would ever be permitted for her love for John Thornton.

‘Enough,’ she whispered, her voice soft yet steadfast.

Margaret _would_ overcome this. This was not her, all this crying over spilt milk. She was not brittle, someone easily broken by the passing affections or vindictive insults of a man. Margaret was stronger, braver, more sensible than this weepy creature she had become. No, she may have fallen in love, but love was a poor prize indeed if it rendered a woman wretched and incapable of living her life. She would distract herself today, she would look after her mother, help Dixon with her chores, and visit Princeton. She would tend to the needs of others and gradually, day by day, her heartache would mend until she could eventually feel even the faintest glimmer of hope and happiness once more. She may never marry, but she would not be an inconsolable old spinster for the rest of her life, one who was incapable of joy.

Picking up her sealed letter, Margaret fetched a small box. With an air of funereal finality, she decisively rested the declaration of devotion and a pair of black leather gloves side by side. On top, she scattered the remnants of the ragged rose petals that had lain strewn across her floor. She then dragged her chair across the room and standing on it, she reached on her tiptoes to the roof of her wardrobe. There Margaret placed the symbolic items high and out of harm’s way, unceremoniously burying them beneath a mass of inconsequential bits and bobs and odds and ends, almost like a mound of soil heaped upon a deceased person, but in this case, it was a deceased dream.

‘Enough,’ she breathed. ‘ _Enough_.’

But just as she was about to clamber down, Margaret turned back and lifted just one glove from the box, not yet quite able to say goodbye forever.

At that moment, the clock on her desk struck the hour and it let out a strident ding, ding, ding…eight times. Her head shot in the direction of the heckling chime.

It was eight in the morning. Already? She had slept late.

Margaret shuddered as she looked down to her arm and saw that the brown hairs had risen into the air, like a legion of soldiers standing to attention all at once. She was so staggered that she wobbled, almost tumbling from her perch on the stool. Rubbing her finger along her skin, she found that it had risen in ridges.

She had goosebumps.

_Eight o’clock._

_12 hours, 720 minutes, and 43,200 seconds to go._

* * *

John stomped across the mill yard, his face etched with lines of vehemence, his temper like that of a violent thunderstorm that whipped the atmosphere around him into a tempestuous squall of ferocity.

As he strode between his office, the warehouse and the production shed with long-legged strides, he resembled a feral animal stalking through the untamed pridelands of his kingdom with a ruthless savagery that rivalled any beast. With a menacing prowl, John’s shoulders were hunched, his head was hung low, his eyes were sharp, his jaw was taut, his mouth was stern, his teeth were bared, and he looked ready to attack, to lash out and strike down his enemies with one fatal swipe. This, here, this was his jungle, his wilderness, his territory, and he was the alpha male, whose authority was absolute. As people watched him skulk past, they trembled, knowing that this man who resembled a panther with his sleek black hair and piercing eyes was prepared to tear anything or anyone who defied his supremacy to shreds. He was a predator, and they just prayed they would not become his prey.

He was alarming. He was intimidating. He was vicious. However, he was no fiend with claws or paws, no, he was just a man, one who was miserable in his loneliness, maimed by his mistakes, and ashamed of his unworthiness. No, John was no monster of malevolence, he was just a man licking his wounds after being sorely battered and bruised by a rival that even he could not conquer, that of unrequited love.

As he crossed the cobbles, John’s attention was pilfered, and his narrowed gaze flitted to a puff of smoke that had escaped the tall chimneys. Dancing in the breeze with a shower of sleet, it was now spilling across the sky like some ominous spirit that threatened to choke the life out of the city and all its citizens. He glowered as he saw the currents of billowing smog spew from the brick flues and spurt into the bracing morning air as a filthy wraith.

John glared.

Milton, Marlborough Mills, they were grim, they were grimy, they were grotesque in their squalor, their deprivation, their coldblooded pursuit of greed. No wonder she did not want to be here, to live here, to be chained to a man who would keep her in this prison of profit for the rest of her life. She would be stifled; she would be disgusted. She would forever be wishing that she could break free, like a bird trapped in a cage, flapping its wings, unable to fly, powerless to flee, doomed to remain in captivity with him, a man who loved her passionately, but who she would see as no more than her jailer. With a growl, John continued on his way, cursing the very foundations of this factory, this domain that had once brought him so much pride, pleasure and prosperity, but now, every grain of stone, every fluff of cotton, they only brought him regret.

John heaved open the doors and began to march across the factory floor, blustering along it like a gust of wind. As the fearsome man approached, his workers all flinched, quaking in their boots, doing everything they could to appear industrious and obscure themselves at the same time, lest they get in the way, catch the eye, and induce the wrath of the irate master. They had all seen Thornton annoyed, they had all seen him aggressive, but never before had they seen him this angry, and it terrified them out of their wits.

As John climbed the stairs onto the scaffold, he winced. The clattering and clanging of the raucous machines were making his head ache like it was about to split him asunder. The clamour was horrendous, and he was tempted to take a sledgehammer to his own skull, if only it would end this throbbing torment, but unfortunately, that would mean an end to everything, a solution that seemed a mite too detrimental, even in his current state of discontent. As he stood there, towering over the scene, he could hear the roar of every loom, the drum of every foot, the chatter of every mouth, and it was driving him mad. Each isolated sound sparred together in a symphony of excruciating noise and he gritted his teeth. For the first time since stepping into the grounds of Marlborough Mills five years ago, John found that he hated this millstone around his neck and would gladly turn on his heels, walk away, and never look back.

John sighed and hung his head in despair.

The truth was, John did not despise the mill, not really. In the depths of his tortured soul, he knew that over the years, this place had formed and fostered his character, his position in the world, just as assuredly as he had built this lucrative business with the steady and committed labour of his own two hands. But what had turned him against the factory, his old friend, was the realisation of how this fortress of cotton and commerce, his partner in trade, would likely forever be his one and only companion, a mistress that would steal him away from the woman he desired above all else. It was because this bastion of enterprise was no place to bring a lady, no place to impose upon a wife, no place to raise a family, and, he had to acknowledge with degradation, no life to offer a magnificent creature such as Margaret.

Damp. Dull. Damage. Drudgery. Dismal. Dilapidation. Depressing.

‘Damn it!’ he hissed.

John frowned as he turned to examine his fleet of men and machines, each busy manufacturing not only textiles, but this master’s empire, his triumph achieved through the punitive blood, sweat and tears of men, women, and children.

For the first time ever, it made him sick to his stomach and he could feel the bile of guilt poisoning his belly. John may have been a reasonable employer, one who was considerate of the needs of those in his care, but he knew that while they struggled and starved feeding the insatiable ravenousness of the industrial revolution that had transformed this nation, only a chosen few fortuitous capitalists would reap the rewards and he, John Thornton, was one such lucky bastard. Yes, while they fought to survive, he, by some twisted hand of fate, thrived.

Gazing down like a God in the clouds, all John could see was a boisterous, deafening, and belligerent temple of tight-fistedness. So, why had he been irrational enough to assume, to imagine, to hope that she could ever wish to visit it for an afternoon, let alone live beside it for the rest of her life? It was not only that, for John could easily acquire another house, one situated at a fashionable address that did not sit beside a hectic factory and hustling street. He could procure a house that would give her the things she would want, such as a vast garden that would remind her of Helstone and all its wide-open spaces. It would be a home where their children could run around, carefree, content, their little lungs unpolluted by city life.

But still, that would not change anything. No, because John was a working man, his income would pay for the roof over her head, her food, her clothes, all of it. But Margaret, she would rather be naked than be adorned in garments bought with proceeds gained from the grind of those she considered subjugated, and worse, by people she believed were exploited by the very man she called husband. No, he could buy her anything her darling heart desired, but none of it would buy her approval or admiration for him.

John sneered at himself. God! What a fool he had been! Someone as sweet as her would be swept up and carried off by a proper gentleman, one who would whisk her away from all this poverty and privation, far, far away from him. With her husband, Margaret would most likely dwell in a stylish London townhouse in a smart part of the capital with no hint of trade to tarnish her pleasant perspective. Or maybe he would establish her in an elegant country manner, removed from the noise and corruption of urban life altogether, surrounded by peaceful natural beauty. She may even be taken to exciting and exotic new lands, climates where the baking sun would tan her lovely skin and she would be enthralled by the sensations of foreign shores.

But here? John scoffed. What a stupid, selfish, supercilious twit he had been to even think for one second that his graceful Margaret would wish to be fettered to a grisly factory or to be shackled to its even less appealing master. Hell! His proposal had been so ludicrously unattractive, so uninviting, so unpalatable, so why in God’s name had he been heedless enough to ask her? To hope against all hope that despite the devastating odds, she might just say yes?

‘Because you love her, that’s why,’ he muttered mournfully.

No, John had always been gratified by his modest mill, the cornerstone of his identity and his accomplishments, a setting that bore witness to all his years of strain and subsequent success. But the devil take him! ─ today he could have willingly set light to the cotton waste and burnt the miserable hovel, reducing it to no more than a mound of rubble.

Stooping on the platform, John had to grip tightly onto the railings just to ground himself, his knuckles turning white under the intensity of his steely grasp, although, he had to admit, his resolve was much less unyielding. John was finding that when he let his mind wander to Margaret, his feet began to move reflexively, itching to take him to her. On more than one occasion today, he had noticed that he was walking determinedly yet dreamily towards the mill gates, meaning that he had to abruptly swerve round and ignore the questioning stares of his baffled workers, who were observing their employer’s eccentric behaviour with growing concern. Indeed, at one point, he had actually left the confines of the property and found himself standing in the middle of a lively thoroughfare looking lost. It was not until Williams had come to fetch him like some sort of stray dog, that John had finally snapped out of his stupor and returned to his work, the poor supervisor utterly mystified by the usually assiduous master’s irregularity. John now had to bring himself to heel and apply some of his renowned self-denial, for if he did not, he would surely find himself striding across town, knocking on her door, sinking to his knees, and begging for her compassion before the day was out.

‘Tempting,’ he murmured, his shoes veering towards Crampton yet again. ‘But no, she does not want me to go to her.’ So, with that, he pointed his frustrated feet away from the south, back north, back to his duty, allowing self-discipline to rule over him once more.

Dropping his hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers clasped hold of something soft, his tips stroking its glossy material. Drawing it out, John held one of Margaret’s gloves in his hand, careful to conceal it from the watchful eyes of any snooping labourers. Squeezing it gently, he imagined Margaret’s hand encased in his own. He had held her hand once, just once, but the memory of it would never leave him. The glove was so small, it looked tiny resting in his larger one. John smiled to himself, for even although the glove may have been delicate, its owner was anything but.

‘Though she may be but little, she is fierce,’ he whispered.

But as he smiled to himself sadly, John heard Williams call up to him from the floor below. ‘Master! Master!’ he hollered, brandishing his cap. ‘That’s Whitehall and Higgins here to see you, shall I send ‘em up?’

Knitting his brow, John took out his pocket watch for inspection. It was only the back of nine. They were early. Good. He liked punctuality.

‘Aye!’ he bellowed back, above the racket of the machines. ‘Let’s see what I’ve got myself into,’ he grumbled, descending the stairs, ready to put his new conscripts through some rigorous tests. They would have to prove their worth if they did not want to be ripped apart by this particular panther, for after all, there is nothing more dangerous than a wounded beast licking his wounds.

_Nine-thirty._

_10.5 hours, 630 minutes, and 37,800 seconds to go._

* * *

Maria Hale was fidgeting.

She was fretting.

She was, she had to concede, just a little bit frantic, if not, she was reluctant to confess, a smidgen furious.

She kept glancing at the clock.

It had just struck eleven.

She frowned.

There was still no sign of Mr Thornton.

Where on earth was he?

Last night, during her epiphany regarding the letter, (one of many, to be sure), that the man had most likely inadvertently stumbled upon, thus creating a rupture and then a rift between him and her daughter, Mrs Hale had reached a decision. She had made up her mind to give the gentleman until noon this day to either show up on her doorstep in person, or, less gallantly, to write specifying when he could be expected, or, even less chivalrously still, to send word of some inexcusable excuse. If, by the strike of twelve, she had seen nor heard neither hide nor hair of Milton’s most eminent mill master, then Mrs Hale would set the next stage of her strategy in motion. Certainly, Mr Thornton may wish to hide behind the iron gates of his citadel, but unfortunately for him, no eligible bachelor could escape a mother who had him pegged as a suitable suitor for her daughter, especially when said mother was running out of time to play matchmaker, rendering her endeavours critical in their urgency.

All the same, when the mistress of the house had settled upon this gambit, she had truly expected that it would not be necessary to evoke such a brash ploy. She had inexplicably trusted that by noon at the latest, Mr Thornton would have materialised and, with any luck, by twelve-thirty, he and Margaret would be reunited, their misunderstandings resolved, and their relationship salvaged and unshakable in its security. Then, by no later than luncheon, their betrothal would be official, and they could all clap and cheer, for wedding bells would soon be ringing for the happy couple.

Nonetheless, as the clock ticked away, mockingly announcing the passing of time, Mrs Hale began to worry, hence the fidgeting, and the fretting, and the franticness, and the frown, and of course, not to forget, a dash of fury to ruffle her maternal feathers.

Sitting beside her were a series of potential missives, each differing in their style of address and directness of tone, each a possible draft to send to the man in question. Nevertheless, despite their variety, each of them contained the same underlying message, whether it be penned vaguely or bluntly: Come! At once!

However, unfortunately for Mrs Hale, it could not be denied that her health was still declining, meaning that she was terribly unwell, fatigue her unrelenting nemesis. That is why at precisely eleven o’clock, Mrs Hale’s drowsy eyelids quivered closed, and leaning against the cosy embrace of her plume pillows, she soon found herself drifting into a deep sleep, one that would regrettably foil her plan and suspend it.

One may not be able to halt time, but it seemed that sickness _could_ halt Mrs Hale in her tracks.

_Eleven o’clock._

_9 hours, 540 minutes, and 32,400 seconds to go._

* * *

Hannah Thornton muttered to herself as her needle slipped yet again and tore a thin but exceedingly vexing gash along the lining of her embroidery.

‘Bother!’ she booed, grousing over the now disfigured cross-stitch that sat indignantly on her lap, the delicate fabric sliced with less artful sophistication than a butcher’s ham. Darn it! She had been working on this for weeks and now it was ruined beyond repair.

Mrs Thornton laid down her sewing in a state of defeat, an emotion that was as alien to her as the men who lived on the craters of the moon. She had dropped three stitches – three! It was not like her at all and was quite unforgivable. It was such a waste, an indignity for something so fine to be damaged by such a careless hand as hers. With her fingers tracing a path along the trimmings of her work, Mrs Thornton’s fastidious eyes drifted across it, taking in every run, every strand, for it was a garment she knew better than any other.

The spoilt cloth with its gossamer material and weaves of yellow thread was the most magnificent thing Mrs Thornton had seen in all her fifty years. To be sure, this was a highly noteworthy commendation for the matriarch to bestow upon any article, for she was a woman with a keen eye for exquisite needlework and her favour was not easily won.

Patting it, she let out a disenchanted breath.

The shawl had belonged to her great-great-great grandmother and dated as far back as King George I, one myth even avowing that it had attended a ball at Hampton Court and had rubbed shoulders with a prince. As fanciful as this fable perhaps was, what was undeniable, was that this simple yet splendid apparel had been worn by a long line of her female predecessors, including Hannah herself. Indeed, it had witnessed the moment she had transmuted from being Hannah Ions to becoming Hannah Thornton, since the young lady had adorned it on her wedding day, the shawl embellishing her arms like a veil of virginal beauty, almost as if the seraphs themselves had crafted it.

Mrs Thornton had been dedicating herself to mending and modernising it to give to Fanny for her eighteenth birthday, the many midnight hours toiling in dim candlelight a labour of love. Although, her mother had to accept with a mournful heart that she mistrusted her daughter would even thank her for such an antiquated bequest, most likely discarding it on the floor like a scullery rag that was expendable and extraneous to her pampered child who had more shawls than any mathematician could hope to count. She now doubted that another woman who bore the Thornton name would ever wear it again, above all on her wedding day of all momentous occasions.

Mrs Thornton huffed at her own folly.

She should not have been so imprudent as to attempt such an intricate and important renovation today of all days, not least because her nerves were frayed, but because it seemed almost wrong to restore anything. Far from being a day of restoration, it was a day of broken bonds, one that she had severed as surely as if she had taken her sewing scissors and snipped the maternal cord that tethered her to her only son, a person that was infinitely more precious than any worldly possession.

Mrs Thornton let her glance flit towards the window, but for better or for worse, she refused to get up and assume her customary stance beside the glass. Not today. She could not abide to see John, not after what she had done, and, if he were by chance to look up at her and catch her eye, there was no telling what confession he could gleam from her countenance, and the coward in her refused to be uncovered in such a way.

No, she would hide away, here, in the dining room, in her usual chair, keeping her back firmly turned from the window in estrangement, simply praying that John did not learn of her treachery. If he did, then he would not see her deceitful deed as being founded on good intentions and parental love, but as an act of indefensible treason.

Oh God! – how she prayed.

Mrs Thornton’s head spun round as she heard the shuffling of silken shoes gliding along the passageway.

She sighed resignedly.

‘Hello Fanny,’ she greeted, rather faintly, since she was in no mood to pander to her daughter’s hysterics today, not when her own son had also recently taken to indulging in fits of lovelorn mania.

‘Hello Mama,’ came a squawking reply, much like a strangled parakeet.

Fanny proceeded to flop down onto a nearby settee, the very same, thought her mother, that Miss Hale had lain on several weeks ago when she had been knocked down by that galling stone. If only the errant pebble had smashed a window and not struck a woman, the very woman her son was besotted with of all the people in the wretched world. The image of John kneeling by his beloved’s side whispering words of worship would never leave Mrs Thornton and now, she found that she could barely look at that couch, for fear that she might take her sheers to it and cause the innocent upholstery some grave harm. It was a pity, she had always liked that settee, it was the one she had been sitting on when she had first felt John kick in her womb. It had also been the very seat in which he had first fed, said his first word, and attempted his first crawl. It was a special chair, to be sure, but now, in her mind’s eye, she would only ever see Miss Hale reclining on it, slumbering in all her sanctimonious and saintly brazenness. Oh! – that saucy, sassy minx!

Idly toying with her blonde, bouncy curls, Fanny ruminated aloud: ‘Have you seen or spoken to John today?’

Mrs Thornton’s eyes rose from the carpet against her will. ‘No! Why?’’ she snapped.

‘Nothing,’ her daughter hummed, her narcissistic nature rendering her as insensible as ever to the anxieties of others. ‘It is just that he is rampaging about the place like an angry bull. He is so grumpy!’ she criticised, unable to pardon her brother’s unpolished manners.

‘I know he is always an irritable grouch, but he is worse than ever of late, today especially. Really, I do feel terribly sorry for his wife whenever that brother of mine marries…if he marries, that is, I cannot think of anyone wanting such a disagreeable bore,’ she gabbled.

‘Poor Anne will have her hands full managing his tantrums,’ she pronounced, stroking the lacey frills of her fuchsia gown, the sheen of which was startling in its pomposity as her many layers of petticoats gushed around her like a balloon.

‘Hmm,’ Mrs Thornton replied absently.

‘I wonder…,’ Fanny mused, the rusty cogs of her mind rotating. ‘What has got into him?’

Retrieving her sewing, Mrs Thornton focused her attention on the bundle of drapery before her, knowing all too well what had soured her son’s temper.

‘Ugh! What is that ugly thing?’ Fanny abused, gesticulating towards the shawl. However, thankfully, her mother was too distracted to overhear this criticism, for if she had, the tactless condemnation would have broken her already heavy heart.

Just then, the clock chimed the half hour and the two ladies’ heads swivelled to note the time.

‘Goodness, it’s the afternoon already,’ Fanny announced. ‘I doubt very much anything thrilling will happen today, nothing ever does,’ she whinged, miffed that none of her friends had offered to go shopping with her, an oversight on their part, she was sure.

Rising to look out of the window, she caught sight of her brother trudging through the snow as he barked orders at a cluster of petrified workers, each one scarpering from his path, frightened that he was about to dismiss them.

‘It will be dull if dreary old John has anything to do with it,’ Fanny complained, slothfulness making her cross. ‘The most boring day there has ever been.’

Mrs Thornton nodded her head solemnly, her eyes skimming to her Bible that was stowed in the top drawer of the Chippendale escritoire, a letter stashed between its pages.

‘Lord preserve us! I do hope so.’

_Twelve-thirty._

_7.5 hours, 450 minutes, and 27,000 seconds to go._

* * *

As Margaret occupied herself with the strenuous task of kneading a lump of dough, her ears pricked as she heard a rapping on the front door. It was a loud knock, a firm knock, a purposeful knock ─ a man’s knock!

With the patter of scurrying slipper feet, she dashed from the kitchen, along the poky corridor, and seized hold of the handle, flinging open the door, hoping that it might be ─

‘Oh,’ she wilted dolefully, the syllable falling flat on its face.

Margaret had been correct in her assumption, well, to an extent. It _was_ a man. But it was not her brother and not a specific mill master neither. Instead, she was greeted by the rotund bearing of Mr Quirke, the postman.

The man revolved from perusing the street to face her and that very same flushed face soon crunched into one of confusion. He looked Margaret up and down and up again, perplexed as to why she should be near enough leaning out of the door, her eyes twinkling, her countenance ruddy with excitement, and her breath all in a pant. This in itself was incongruous enough, most unbecoming for a young lass, but it was rendered all the odder by the flecks of flour that seemed to cake her hands and cheeks. Undeniably, the Hales were a curious bunch, but Mr Quirke deemed that he was better off not dwelling on the quirks of such peculiar people from the south, a place that was to his mind, as foreign as Timbuktu.

Clearing his throat, Mr Quirke mustered his deepest and most impressive voice, nevertheless, it still came out as an unfavourably jarring squeak. ‘Ah, yes, yes, good afternoon, Miss Hale,’ he began, rolling on the balls of his feet nervously, his eyes searching behind her twitchily.

Margaret’s body sagged as she readied for yet another game of charades.

In her naive innocence, Margaret had long wondered why the man made such a farce of bringing the Hale’s post, particularly given the fact that she had observed him delivering everyone else on the street’s correspondence with a negligible effort at civility, suggesting that his conscientious conduct towards their household was exclusive. Nonetheless, it was a few weeks ago that Margaret had trundled down the stairs and had witnessed a bizarrely intimate scene, one in which a plainly uneasy Mr Quirke had been conversing with Dixon of all people. Now, Margaret may have been inexperienced in the art of flirtation, but even she noted the way the postman shuffled nervously from foot to foot, the way Dixon swished her apron, the way he lingered longer than was necessary, and the way she did not slam the door in his face like she did with just about every other caller who dared disturb her chores. Yes, Margaret may have been unworldly, but as she had sat on the stairs and studied this spectacle, even she understood that it was a dance of dalliance.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Margaret rudely snatched the letters from his hands. ‘I am sorry Mr Quirke, but Miss Dixon is not in at present. I shall do my best to ensure that she is here to answer the door tomorrow.’ Just as the enamoured fellow was about to stutter a response, Margaret concluded with a curt: ‘Good day!’ taking after the unsympathetic servant and shutting the door in the poor man’s face, near enough whacking his nose as it swung closed.

Leaning against the frame, she sifted through the pile of letters. Her heart sank. No, nothing from Spain and nothing from…never mind. She knew his handwriting well; she had kept the note he had sent with the basket of fruit on the afternoon of the same day that she had refused his proposal. His determined kindness had flustered Margaret’s conscience and unsettled her resolve at rejecting him. His message had been brief and gave nothing of their argument or his agony away, instead he had been benevolence itself. At the time, Margaret had assumed that it was owing to Mr Thornton’s thoughtful nature, something that she was only beginning to recognise, but now she knew the truth, that he had not been phased by her snub, since he was in fact relieved that she had declined and had probably been congratulating himself on his lucky escape.

As Margaret laid the letters down on the small table inside the study door, she froze and shivered, remembering the cold discussion, or rather, the cruel quarrel that she and Mr Thornton had exchanged on this very spot two days ago. As Margaret dropped the envelopes onto the table, she startled as she noticed her father watching her carefully. She had not spotted him before because his presence had been hidden by his highbacked armchair that reposed before the fire, one of the only pieces of furniture that he had insisted accompany him from the rectory.

‘Oh! Papa!’ Margaret wheezed. ‘You gave me a fright!’

Mr Hale smiled warmly.

Taking off his spectacles, he rose from his chair and came to stand by his daughter. Margaret remarked that even although her father was not a man of intimidating stature like some she could name, he was still rather tall. Eyeing her watchfully, Mr Hale took her hands in his and gently stroked her knuckles with his wrinkled thumbs.

‘I am sorry, my little one,’ he said softly, so sensitively and unexpectedly that Margaret thought she might start to cry.

Casting his glance above the tip of her head, his eyes fell upon the stack of letters. ‘Anything from your brother yet?’

Margaret shook her head sadly and her father let out a sigh that whistled through his nostrils.

‘It will not be long,’ he contended with confidence. ‘I am sure of it. Fred, my boy, he will come, mark my words,’ he declared.

Then, cupping his daughter’s cheek, Mr Hale lifted her chin so that she was looking at him, and he studied her with painstaking concentration, much like she had seen him do with the ancient texts from the libraries at Oxford.

‘Margaret…I know about your mother,’ he admitted at last.

Margaret’s eyelashes quivered, but she could not find the words to reply, instead, she stared at him in stunned silence.

‘Margaret, my dear child, I am so very sorry.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry for, Papa,’ she assented, although she could feel her throat clogging as her eyes brimmed with tears.

‘I think, poppet, that I do. I know the past few months have been very hard on you, and I am sorry that I have not cared for you more. But I am resolved to do better. I know about your mother and I know that there is nothing…nothing we can do...that I can do for her, my dearest wife,’ he swallowed thickly, his face faltering. ‘But I promise that I will do all I can to look after you and we shall weather the storm together, you and I,’ he promised.

Mr Hale then did something that he had not done since she was a little girl. He tenderly pulled Margaret’s head forward and laid it on his chest, soothingly caressing her hair.

‘Margaret?’ he croaked.

‘Yes, Father?’ she snivelled, wrapping her arms around him.

‘You are unhappy, my child.’ It was not a question, more of a statement. ‘Why? I have a feeling that it is not merely your mother’s illness that is upsetting you. What is the matter?’

She did not answer, she _could not_.

‘Margaret…,’ he wavered. ‘Can I ask? May I?...’ Mr Hale took a deep breath. ‘That letter you asked me to send yesterday?’

Mr Hale felt his daughter flinch in his arms.

‘Has something happened between you and John? Between you and Mr Thornton?’

Still, she said nothing.

‘It is just that I was thinking…that message…what you said about it being easier for him to study at his own house, that was true enough. But there was something about the way you conducted yourself when you asked me to write it. There was an earnestness, you were distressed. And the night before, when he came here, there was something about your manner towards one another. The way you spoke to each other, the way you looked at each other. I know that I am not the most observant of people, God did not gift me with such a subtle aptitude for reading people as well as I read books. Nevertheless, I just wondered…’

Margaret gulped.

‘Margaret?’ he encouraged. ‘Tell me…is there something between you and Mr Thornton? Do you have reason to believe he cares for you?’

Mustering all her strength, Margaret lifted her head, looked her father straight in the eye and pronounced: ‘No, Father. I can assure you that I am nothing to Mr Thornton.’ She had done everything she could to ensure that her voice did not crack under the weight of her grief.

Turning to leave the room, she crooked her head over her shoulder and concluded: ‘There never has been anything between us...and there _never_ will be.’

_Two o’clock._

_6 hours, 360 minutes, and 21,600 seconds to go._

* * *

Archie Whitehall and Nicholas Higgins were finding that their leg muscles were beginning to burn as they were stretched to their limits chasing here, there, and everywhere after the Master of Marlborough Mills, who seemed to move so fast, one would think a firework had been lit up his backside.

Both men mentally noted that it might be prudent to exercise their muscles tomorrow before arriving for work, just to be sure they did not keel over under the influence of a creak, a crippling, or a crunch of ligaments and bones, for Thornton was a merciless slave driver and make no mistake.

‘Keep up!’ he shouted, as he tore across the yard at alarming speed, not seeming to quail as the layers of frost encrusting the ground crept up his shins, drenched his trousers, and nipped at his blueing skin.

Easy for him to say, grumbled Mr Whitehall to himself, since he was not nearly as lofty as Mr Thornton, so was not endowed with the same interminable build that would allow him to progress through the snow like a plough.

Higgins on the other hand, was quietly smirking away, convinced that he had accurately speculated as to the cause of the master’s restless demeanour, since he had witnessed some of the bashful exchanges between Thornton and Miss Hale. It was funny how folks in love seemed to think that their displays of affection were invisible, even to each other, but for anyone looking closely, the awkward intimacy of a love in its infancy was not hard to ignore. What was more, Higgins was no fool, and he knew that the only reason he had been afforded this position was because Miss Margaret had appealed to Thornton directly. Where rational petitions of reason would have failed with a battle-axe like the Master of Marlborough Mills, Higgins was certain that a particular pair of pretty eyes would have persuaded him without much effort, and the forbidding man’s willpower would have crumbled to dust. Yes, he knew the source of the master’s frustration, a bonnie face would do that to a man, even one as hard-hearted as Thornton. Be that as it may, as it was his first day, Higgins opted to keep his opinions to himself, not daring to venture an audible guess as to the root of the master’s simmering ill-temper.

As they entered his office, John began to busy himself with pulling out various ledgers for his new workers to review. As he set the papers out in a systematic sequence, John weighed up the two men who now stood either side of him. He may not have been able to boast the necessary skills required to comprehend people in general, he most definitely could not figure out women, that was for sure, but there was one species that John did understand, and that was tradesmen.

Whitehall was tolerable enough, a congenial and attentive young chap who hung on John’s every word. Nonetheless, he was a boy, a pup, and one who John had a feeling would soon be getting under his feet, as well as on his nerves. However, with a scowl, the master had to concede that Higgins was demonstrating that he was a more valuable addition to his workforce than John had previously anticipated, even in the few hours that he had been here. Higgins was an experienced labourer, one who had spent most of his adult life in mills, so he undoubtedly knew the tricks of the trade, but John just hoped that he had no tricks of insubordination stashed up his radical sleeve. All the same, it appeared that his insurgent ideologies had not softened his brain, because the fellow was as sharp as a flint in his understanding of spinning and spindling cotton into the most satisfactory textiles John had ever seen. He was a tenacious fellow too, as John knew that the man would likely not be able to read most of the mill’s documents, but Higgins said nothing, he did not draw back, instead he stood his ground, buckled down, and got on with the task in hand, a dogged quality that John judged as highly admirable. John had been secretly hoping to be able to dismiss Higgins promptly on the grounds of some minor misdemeanour, but alas, it looked as if they were going to have to get used to each other, since the union leader was proving more than competent and capable in his role. Damn! Yes, John had to admit with a slight knock to his pride that the man was perhaps going to turn out to be more of an asset than an antagonist. Damn! Was Margaret ever wrong?

As John placed a heavy book on the table that detailed the mill’s stock and shipments, young Mr Whitehall piped up, his face aglow with enthusiasm. ‘I cannot thank you enough, Sir,’ he simpered. ‘This is such a rare opportunity and I know how lucky I am to have been given this position. I won’t take it for granted, I won’t! You’ll see! I am honoured to be working under such a knowledgeable and distinguished businessman such as you, Mr Thornton!’ he lauded.

‘Yes,’ John sighed, not for the first time that day. ‘You’ve said.’

John and Higgins exchanged a fleeting but fraternal grin.

‘And of course, I do not just have you to thank,’ Mr Whitehall babbled on, ‘I have her!’ he breathed in awe. ‘Miss Hale!’

Higgins noticed that his employer’s hands stiffened as they gripped the edges of his desk, the robust wood groaning and splintering under the weight of his powerful clutch. He also spotted the way the man’s eyebrows cockled, the way his teeth flashed, the way his nostrils flared, and, if he looked closely, the way his soul blistered behind those fierce eyes that wore a precarious mask of indifference.

Nevertheless, the dear and dipsy Mr Whitehall was, as ever, oblivious to the world around him, a man after Mr Hale’s own heart, it would seem, the father of the woman he was quite evidently smitten with.

‘Is she not the most glorious creature?’ he continued, a distinctly breathy sigh escaping him.

Higgins’ shrewd gaze darted between the two men, a pair who he deemed could not be more opposite if they tried. While one was well-built, brooding, solemn, and a man of few words, the other was short, benign, excitable, and he was sorry to say, a hopeless bigmouthed, tattletale, chatterbox.

On receiving no reply from his companions, Mr Whitehall took this as a sign that he should resume his ode to the finest female he had ever laid eyes on. ‘She is perfection itself!’ he championed. ‘She is beautiful, sweet, kindly, and oh, when she smiles…,’ he advocated. ‘I know that I am not much of a man now, but who knows, maybe if I work terribly hard, like you did when you were young, Mr Thornton,’ the boy went on, ignoring his employer’s snarls, ‘then I might one day be lucky enough to win her affections!’

‘Enough!’ John bellowed, his hand spanking the table, sending a strident smacking sound through the air, while a stinging sensation shot up his palm, wrist, and arm, making his biceps ripple beneath his shirt.

John breathed deeply, the pain in his head unbearable.

‘ _Enough_ ,’ he repeated, more quietly this time. ‘Just… _don’t_ talk about _her_ … _please_.’ Then, perceiving the confused look spreading across Mr Whitehall’s witless face, he quickly added: ‘Come now, we have work to do,’ he reminded them, gesturing towards the collection of records.

But as they all crowded round and bent to inspect his meticulous accounts and registers, John concluded: ‘Your aspirations and intentions are honourable, Mr Whitehall, I do not doubt it,’ he said calmly, his throat dry. ‘But believe me, you will get hurt if you give your heart to the likes of Margaret Hale.’

Mr Whitehall cocked his head. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because angels don’t marry mortals,’ he said plainly, a shadow darkening his features. ‘It is better to never let yourself fall in love.’

The trio then fell into a suffocating silence. Mr Whitehall was trying to decode the master’s strange divination and dispiriting advice. In contrast, rather than being baffled by his employer’s gloomy foretelling, Higgins found it only illuminated and confirmed his own theories about Thornton’s bereft devotion for the lovely Miss.

But as they all started to study the volumes of paperwork, John was the only one whose mind still wandered across town to…well, you know who to. He discretely glanced at his watch. So late? The day was marching on. Good. He was pleased with himself, for where he had thought of her every fifteen seconds this morning, he was now finding that he was only thinking of her every thirty seconds, progress indeed, even if it was abysmally pathetic. Despite his earlier passing dissatisfaction with the mill, John knew that productiveness was the answer to his plight, it had to be. He would throw himself into his work and stay up morning, noon, and night if it meant he could salvage his struggling business.

On the other hand…if he stayed up and did not sleep, then he would not see…John’s hand involuntarily rose to his mouth and he stroked his lips. God! ─ he could still taste her, even with that briefest of brushes he had managed before he had woken up. If he focused his senses, John could still feel the honeyed suppleness of her mouth, the sweep of her hair, the curve of her hips, the heat of her thighs─ _no_!

It was better if he did not dream of her, for as tempting as it was, it would only prolong and aggravate his torment. But as John thought about his dream from this morning, that delicious dream, he suddenly furrowed his temple. There was still something niggling at the back of his mind. A boy had been here last night, but who? And John himself had done something regrettable last night, but what? And his mother had been behaving distinctly suspiciously last night, but why?

John concentrated, trying to think, but the harder he tried, the hazier it became and the more his head hurt.

As John leaned over to reach for his ink, something slipped out of his pocket and fell onto the floor with a gentle thud. Squinting down, Higgins spied a small, slender, silken glove, and he smiled. Bowing to pick it up, he proffered his arm to return it to its keeper, for he knew fine well that the master was not its rightful owner.

‘Yours, Thornton,’ he stated, a knowing smirk slanting his mouth.

John peered up distractedly and then his eyes went wide as he saw the item in Higgins’ calloused grasp. Grabbing it, he yanked it away and stuffed it back in his pocket possessively. The union leader detected that Thornton’s hand was swathed in bandages and he sucked his teeth wondering how the bleeding ‘eck the man had managed to carve himself up so savagely. 

With an embarrassed grunt, John explained: ‘It’s not mine…obviously…it’s…my sister’s,’ he finished lamely. With that, he buried his nose in his books, the tips of his ears as red as a tomato.

Aye, likely story, thought Higgins, who in his wisdom knew all too well to whom that dainty glove belonged, having seen the pair resting on his kitchen table many times before.

Poor Thornton! Perhaps the miserable old sod was to be pitied after all.

_Three-thirty._

_4.5 hours, 270 minutes, and 16,200 seconds to go._

* * *

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Mrs Hale awoke with a start and a snort. 

As she let her disorientated gaze scan around the room, she noted how much darker it had become. Shuffling groggily, she turned to glance at her clock and ─

‘Oh, Heavens!’ she squawked.

Mrs Hale seized the clock and scrutinised it, her eyes flabbergasted, her eyebrows so far up her forehead that they were near enough in the clouds.

‘No!’ she blew. ‘ _Five_?! Five o’clock?’

No, no, no. That was not right. Oh dear, oh my, oh no!

Snatching her small bedside bell, she commenced clanging it with a wealth of agitation, the ring-ping-ting of the shrill contraption pealing throughout the house.

‘Dixon!’ she called at the top of her lungs. ‘Come quick, I need you! _NOW_!’

_Five o’clock._

_3 hours, 180 minutes, and 10,800 seconds to go._

* * *

‘WOOO-WOOO!’ screamed the train whistle.

What a fuss _,_ thought the voyager, as they watched the platform porters scurry past in their funny little uniforms and silly cylinder-shaped hats that bobbled on their heads like plates of jelly. Tutting and scratching their beard, the sullen observer cursed small people, with their small minds, and their small problems.

This passenger was irritated.

Their impatience was partly due to their innately short temper, which was at present been profoundly tested by the immense discomfort inflicted by the confounded train seats. They were lumpy and the backs were too tall, while the cushions were too narrow, making it awkward to manoeuvre oneself into a satisfactory position. They could only be grateful that they had a set of slim buttocks and not a stout one. However, the traveller’s key cause for tenseness was that they wished to get as far away from locomotives, and stations, and people, and from wide open spaces as speedily and safely as possible.

They had now been journeying for what felt like an age, first by boat, then by carriage, and now by train, and had calculated from the timetable that they would not arrive at their ultimate destination for another three tiresome hours. It was now growing dark, so they could no longer take in the idyllic countryside swiftly sweeping by, a landscape they had not even realised their soul had hungered for after years of estrangement. With rolling hills, barren scrubs and trees, and moorland tinged with the purple and pink hues of heather, it was a sight for sore eyes. 

Good old England!

Nevertheless, the traveller had noticed that the majestic rural panorama was fast disappearing, with fields being swallowed up by the ravenous appetite of the revolution and railway, a change from their childhood that made a small part of their heart weep for the simple days long gone, lost forever, never to be returned to.

But, no, darkness was good. It provided a cloak of indiscernibility and anonymity. Yes, darkness was a friend.

The passenger lurched as they heeded the simultaneous thwack of compartment doors closing and the train begin to groan as it lugged its heavy body forward, and then, finally, the sound of the wheels beginning to clatter on the iron rails below.

Good. They were moving. At last.

They could only pray that they got there in time.

Slowly the steam engine started to pull out and chug along, leaving the platform and all the busy, bustling people behind. As they watched the granite like dusk creep over the hills and smother the light, the passenger covered their face with their coat and closed their eyes, but they would not sleep, they would not dare, not here, not now ─ no chance!

As the train trundled through the counties of Blighty bound for the north, the wanderer kept their heels firmly locked against their battered old travel case, which was concealed behind their legs. The engraved inscription was hard to read after so many years of being kissed by different seas, shores, and a scorching sun. However, if one looked very carefully indeed, one could make out a faint:

_FH_


	25. THE GOD OF MESSAGES AND MERCHANTS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yayh! Crack open the champers, this is the last angsty chapter! Woohoo! I know it took longer than planned, I decided to take a couple of days off at the weekend to have a break and spend time with my hubby who wanted to do some birthday stuff with me. Eek, I’m 28 today!
> 
> On another note, guess what…this story is now officially longer than Gaskell’s novel! And it’s not even finished. Ahh! I don’t know if that is good or bad and what she would have to say. 
> 
> This chapter contains a few Victorian slang phrases, so see the glossary at the end if you’re interested. 
> 
> Lastly, an update about the awards, so I won three prizes across three categories and am very happy indeed. Thank you all for your kind words of encouragement and support on that front.

CHAPTER 25:

THE GOD OF MESSAGES AND MERCHANTS

Moments later, Dixon came bustling into the room, her face flushed with alarm.

When she entered upon the scene, she found her mistress dragging back her bedclothes and attempting to rise to her feet, an effort that was shaky in its instability as the woman’s legs wobbled like long grass trembling in the wind.

‘What’s all this?’ she cried, her anxiety filling the room even more than her matronly presence.

Dixon rushed to Mrs Hale’s side and gently lowered her back into a seated position.

‘What’s happened?’ she questioned, scanning her mistress up and down, examining her for any sign of injury.

By this point, Mrs Hale had worked herself up into such a tizzy, that she found herself quite breathless, puffing like a train that had run out of steam after hauling itself up one steep hill too many.

‘Dixon!’ she gasped, grappling for air, her eyes shining with animation. ‘I ─ I take it − I take it that…oh, my goodness! Have I had any visitors today?’ she checked, fanning herself daintily with her copy of Pride and Prejudice, feeling, she had to concede, rather like the hysterical Mrs Bennet, a comparison she was not keen to cultivate.

Dixon was flummoxed. She placed her hands on her hips, tutting peevishly. ‘Visitors?’ she reiterated. ‘No, of course not. Who do you think would be visiting you in this miserable backwater? The Mayor?’ she groused.

Mrs Hale flapped her hand and rolled her eyes, too preoccupied to reprimand her servant for her gall. ‘No visitors at all? Not one? Not even for Mr Hale or Margaret?’ she wheezed. ‘And no messages left for me? For anyone?’ she coughed, her chest palpitating with the effort of her exertions, causing her to splutter inelegantly into her handkerchief.

‘No,’ Dixon replied, shaking her head in exasperation as she skittered to her lady’s side. With an effort at composure, she proceeded to fluff Mrs Hale’s pillows. ‘Come now,’ she sighed, a soothing serenity replacing her previously irascible tone. ‘What is all this nonsense? Hmm? Did you have a bad dream?’

‘ _Oh_!’ Mrs Hale objected, batting her faithful friend away. ‘Dixon!’ she huffed, somewhat haughtily. ‘I am not a child!’ she insisted with a crotchety pout, which, the servant did not like to point out, made the greying woman look exceptionally childish.

‘I need you to do something and there is no time for us to squabble over it,’ Mrs Hale said, tripping over her tongue in her haste. ‘I want you to fetch _that_ boy, the messenger boy, I believe he can usually be found loitering nearby. I want you to bring him to me, now, at once.’

Dixon’s face fell. ‘Bring that toerag _here_? Now _?_ Are you out of your mind?’ she disparaged. ‘Whatever for?! He will make a mess, he’s as filthy as a rat! He will − he will ─ he will steal something!’ Dixon protested, her pitch painfully and piercingly shrill.

‘Go!’ Mrs Hale demanded. ‘Immediately! I do not have time. This is important, go, please, I shall explain later!’ she vowed. ‘Just bring him to me! _Now_!’ she screeched, pointing towards the door.

Once Dixon had scuttled off, muttering a few choice criticisms under her breath, Mrs Hale snatched up her pen and paper once more. This time, she knew exactly what she wanted to write. It would be simple and straight to the point, and no man, no matter how obtuse, could possibly get the wrong end of the stick. She could only hope that Mr Thornton was as clever as her husband proclaimed.

* * *

Fifteen minutes had passed before Mrs Hale heard the hubbub of Dixon escorting a visitor up the stairs, but by the sound of all her grumbling grievances, one would think she was locked in a skirmish with a villain who had come to cut their throats in the night and make off with the silver.

‘Now you mind your manners, you scamp!’ she hollered, halfway along the corridor, her officious voice booming. ‘None of your foul language here! Excuse me, boy, don’t you go sticking your tongue out at me, I’m your elder! ─ What?! How dare you call me ald?! Away with you! Now, no, don’t touch the wallpaper, you’ll get your grubby paws all over it. And mind to take your cap off and speak clearly!’

A second later, Dixon shepherded, or perhaps better described as shoved, a young lad into her mistress's bedroom. Before Mrs Hale lumbered a lanky, skinny, dirty faced boy of around ten years. He stood straight, stretching to make himself seem stronger and stouter before those he did not know whether they were friend or foe. He fixed the mistress with a glare, one that was challenging and wonderfully cheeky, if not a smidgen coy beneath the surface of his show of bravado. It reminded Mrs Hale of another boy she knew very well, one who had been mischievous all his life, so much so that his defiant, yet moral spirit had led him to commit mutiny, an act that meant his mother had not seen him from that day to this. A boy who was most likely many, many miles away across the sea.

Mrs Hale smiled; she had a soft spot for such boys.

Studying her guest, Mrs Hale could not help but notice that his eye wandered as he took in the finery of the room, one that was more lavishly furnished than anything he had ever seen. For all he knew, this was how folks in Buckingham Palace lived, and, to his mind, Mrs Hale was as grand as the Queen herself. He tried to conceal his awe, but his eyes gleamed as he tipped his head back and oohed and aahed at everything he saw.

Mrs Hale looked him up and down. Bless, what a scruffy little tyke he was. He was threadlike in his thinness, his hair, which was most likely a sandy blonde shade, was sullied by the dust of the city, which had sprinkled flecks of soot on his straw-coloured strands. His tattered clothes did not fit him properly, only serving to heighten his dishevelment. His shirt was that of a man’s, and great bunches of raggedy fabric bloated around him, giving him the look of a puffy meringue. His trousers finished several inches above his shoes, boots that were clearly too large and too dog-eared to be either comfortable or practical.

Hmm, she would have to do something about that.

‘Good evening, young man,’ she started, smiling at him genially. ‘Thank you kindly for coming to see me, it is much appreciated.’

The boy jutted out his chin and surveyed her with sceptical guardedness. 

‘What do ya want me for?’ he demanded to know; his snippy attitude cagey. ‘I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!’ he rebelled.

‘I told you!’ Dixon admonished, clipping him about the ears. ‘Mind your manners!’

‘Nobody said you were in trouble, my dear,’ Mrs Hale assured him. ‘Quite the opposite. I have asked you to come here because I have a job for you.’

At this, the boy twitched, his ears pricking beneath his cap. Removing the letter from the pages of her book, Mrs Hale waved it in the air. ‘I want you to deliver this letter for me, do you think you can do that?’

The boy hung back for a trice, thinking twice about this offer, unwilling to become ensnared in a posh prat’s trap, something that had happened too often before. However, after shilly-shallying for no more than two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he soon bobbed his head keenly.

‘Excellent,’ Mrs Hale commended. ‘See, that was not too difficult.’

The boy seemed to loosen ever so slightly, his shoulders rolling back.

‘I believe you frequently distribute items of correspondence. Is that correct?’ she asked nonchalantly, feigning casual disinterest.

‘Aye, I suppose. This house, you send a lot, don’t ya? What’s wrong with you all? Can’t get up and do it yourselves? Lazy louts!’ he jeered; his decaying teeth visible as he grinned broadly.

‘Oh! You devil! I ought to take my rolling pin to you!’ Dixon bawled, steam practically surging out of her ears. She grabbed him by his shirt collar and made ready to toss him out into the cold winter night for his impertinence.

‘It is alright, Dixon,’ Mrs Hale placated, holding up a steady hand. ‘Now, young man, that was very impolite indeed, and I do not like discourtesy. If you wish to be employed for this task and paid for it, then you must be respectful, do you understand?’ she cautioned, well versed in disciplining wayward children after many years as a parson’s wife.

With a bellyache of a grumble, he nodded again, scuffing his feet on the floor as he sulked.

‘Good,’ she said decisively, indicating that the matter was now at a close and no repeat transgression would be tolerated, a subtle skill that all Beresford women possessed. ‘But you are quite right, there has been a considerable quantity of correspondence to and from this house of late. Tell me, did you convey a letter from here last night?’

‘Aye,’ he acknowledged.

Mrs Hale quashed the bubble of excitement that ballooned in her chest. ‘Hmm, and where was it bound for?’

The boy trawled his memory. ‘That mill master’s place. The grumpy one. The only one who don’t look like a dog’s dinner. Thornton. To his house.’

‘I see,’ Mrs Hale mused, expertly hiding her interest as she crept closer towards unearthing the crux of this complex matter. ‘Now, I need to know something, and I promise I will not be cross with whatever answer you give, so long as it is the truth,’ she reassured, giving him a solemn but sympathetic smile. ‘Now then, tell me, did you definitely deliver it?’

The boy’s head shot up and his eyes blazed like a bed of hot coals. ‘Course I did!’ he snapped, outraged at the suggestion that he had shirked his obligation.

‘To whom?’ Mrs Hale probed, her own chocolate-brown eyes sharpening.

‘A doddery man at the door. He was right ald, older than that one,’ he went on, jolting his head towards an affronted Dixon, who could quite happily have skelped his insolent backside.

Mrs Hale stifled a smirk.

‘He were cross and turned his nose up at me, right snooty like. A servant, I think,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I ‘anded it over and he took it away to give to the master. I swear! I did give them it!’ he insisted, his rough hands reaching out towards her in appeal, his fingernails home to more grime than a scullery scrubbing brush.

The lad would not admit it but running around town delivering messages was the only work he could find, and he needed every meagre penny if he did not want to starve and if he intended to keep feeding his five younger siblings. It was not a light burden he carried on his youthful shoulders, what with their pa being at sea and their ma away every night, often not returning for days.

Mrs Hale nodded perceptively. Well, at least she now knew the letter had reached the house safely. The question remaining was: what had happened to it after that? Peering up at the boy, she noted the way he shivered, but whether it was from the cold or from anxiety, she could not be certain. He was so terribly young.

‘What is your name?’ she enquired gently, suddenly aware that she had been remiss in her role as a gracious hostess.

‘Billy,’ he mumbled, rubbing his snotty nose with his threadbare cuff. ‘Billy Mercury.’

Mrs Hale grinned. Mercury? The Roman God of messages and merchants, how delectably appropriate.

‘Well Billy,’ Mrs Hale continued, reaching into a small sable purse that she kept on her person. She took out a single gold sovereign and pinched it between her fingers, the rounded metal glinting in the candlelight.

Billy gasped, his eyes near enough popping out of their sockets at the sight of such a fortune, the likes of which boys such as him never clapped eyes on, not in their wildest daydreams.

‘This coin, it is for you,’ Mrs Hale stated. ‘But… _but_ I need you to do something for me and to promise faithfully that it will be done.’

‘Anything!’ he whispered, feeling a little lightheaded at the thought of receiving such a reward.

‘I want you to go at once, as fast as you can, and deliver one last letter. This one,’ she clarified, holding it up for everyone present to see.

‘I need you to go to Marlborough Mills and you must put it straight into Mr Thornton’s hands. His hands _only_ , do you hear?’ she stipulated. ‘Nobody else’s, no matter what they say or do. And, Billy, this is important…I need you to watch him open it. You and I, Billy, we need to be certain he has read it,’ she asserted seriously, leaning in towards him in a conspiratorial manner.

The boy sucked his lips at this odd request. ‘He’s awful scary, Mrs,’ Billy resisted. ‘He won’t like that. His bark ain’t worse than his bite, not old bulldog Thornton! He’s as fierce as they get!’

Mrs Hale simpered. ‘I can promise you, Billy, he will like _this_ letter,’ she reassured him. ‘In fact, I would even venture to say that it will be the best letter he has ever received.’

Billy dithered, the tick-tock of the clock marking the seconds that passed while the wily lad weighed up how likely it was that he would end up being thrashed by Thornton as a compensation for his cheekiness. But at last, he grinned and winked at Mrs Hale, for while Thornton was tough, Billy was as cunning as a fox.

‘Alright, you’re on!’

‘Hoorah! We have a pact,’ she cheered. ‘This is for you,’ Mrs Hale said, thrusting out the coin and smirking as he filched it from her grasp. Billy scoured it between his dirty fingers, before biting down on it to make sure that it was the genuine article and not a nugget of fool’s gold, such as the imitation rock one heard of being dug up in the Americas.

‘I am giving it to you now because I trust you,’ she asserted. ‘I am confident that you will not let me down.’

‘No, I won’t Mrs!’ he replied, as mad as hops, staring at his treasure as if it were from the legendary caves of El Dorado itself.

Billy extended his hand for her to shake to seal the deal. For a split second, Mrs Hale was flustered, unused to such informal physical contact, most notably with a street urchin. However, in a spirit of comradeship, Mrs Hale soon took his small, mucky hand in hers and shook it firmly.

‘And when you are done, you must come back here, Billy,’ she suggested warmly. ‘If you come back, Dixon here will make sure you get a wholesome hot meal,’ she ensured, ignoring the servant’s moans of protest. ‘And I think we can perhaps find you a few clothes that might fit.’

Mrs Hale was thinking of the trunk of Fred’s old belongings that she had never been able to bring herself to part with. Nonetheless, now she thought that somebody else needed the childhood garments more than he did, especially given the fact that he had outgrown them long ago. Besides, she trusted that her own dear son would heartily approve of such alms.

She also had a fancy that Dixon could do with some help around the house every now and again with tasks such as fetching and carrying to spare her aching back. It occurred to Mrs Hale that Billy would be the ideal nominee for the position and that he could most likely benefit from the additional and stable income. It was probable that Dixon would grouse at first, but Mrs Hale had a feeling that the pair had the potential to be firm friends if they put their minds to it.

‘But Billy, you must go now, and you must go quick!’ Mrs Hale compelled.

With that, the God of messages and merchants tipped his cap, bowed, and sped out of the door as fast as his scraggy legs could carry him.

‘Godspeed, Billy, Godspeed!’ she whispered after him, for there was no turning back now. Mr Thornton _would_ be here this night; of that she was as sure as salvation.

* * *

Billy ran!

The God of messages and merchants sprinted as fast as he could, the streets of Milton blurring into a haze of houses, pavements, shops, and factories. Billy dashed up steps, bolted around corners, scurried over cobbles, each stride bringing him closer and closer to reaching the finishing line in this race against time.

He did not care that his legs burnt with the vigour of his running. Nor that his chest wheezed as his sullied lungs fought for breath with every accelerated bound and leap. Nor that his side ached with a stitch that made his stomach twist and tickle all at once. Nor that his feet chafed against the worn lining of his oversized boots, causing his heels to blister and sore, his senses stinging with the pain of raw skin. Nor that he was so faint with fatigue, that he began to see black spots twinkling behind his eyes.

No, all he could think about was earning that sovereign!

He knew that it had already been handed over, the old lady had been hasty and heedless enough to give it to him before he had fulfilled his task. What a gullible old bat! Did she not know that he could disappear into the night, and she would never see him or her money ever again? However, Billy Mercury may have been a pauper, but he was a principled lad, and he would not let her down ─ no sir!

He flew on further and faster into the heart of town, towards the cluster of mills that dominated the city like monuments, idols erected in the worship of materialism. He skidded on the ice and tumbled to the ground, his leg scraping against the glassy sheet of razor-sharp frost and cutting him from shin to thigh. It hurt like hell, but he did not care, not when he had enough money in his pocket to feed his family meat for a whole month. And, if he were a jammy Jack, as his pa would say, then he had a feeling there might be a clean pair of socks, a hot dinner, and maybe even a bath in it for him.

Finally, Billy tore around a bend and joined the hectic thoroughfare of Marlborough Street. He ducked and dived as he whizzed and weaved through a gaggle of people all shiftlessly strolling about like they had nothing better to do. Billy sneered! Toffee nosed twirps! What was the point of them? They all jumped, recoiled and gasped as they saw him flit past and wondered what such a shabby little scoundrel was doing heading for Marlborough Mills in such a haste. He had no doubt pilfered something and the pickpocket was now attempting to abscond. Still, the careless ne'er-do-well was making a blunder running straight into the lion’s den, for Thornton was a magistrate and a notoriously harsh one at that. With the callous self-righteousness of the rich, the genteel horde of dandies giggled as they thought how Thornton would soon make mincemeat of that good-for-naught miscreant.

Billy was lucky to find that the mill had not yet closed and that the gates were wide open. As he scurried into the courtyard, he spun in frantic circles searching for his target. It was frightful dark, but he could make out around twenty men, all different shapes and sizes, but none of them the marked man Billy was seeking. Even although Billy had never got close enough to have a proper look at Mr Thornton and take full measure of the miserable miser, he knew full well for whom he was scavenging. He had seen him about town, always giving the impression of being busy, bothered, and brutish ─ a right bulldog.

He was so very tall, like a tree, and he had a look of a big, bad ogre about him, meaning that Billy was always quick to scarper out of his way for fear that the grumpy giant might stomp past and crush him underfoot. Yet, as he looked round, Billy could see a sea of people, but none of them were Thornton. Nonetheless, as the dizzy boy whirled for the hundredth time, Billy caught sight of a man who seemed to be giving people orders and the clever chap in him decided that this was the best place to start.

‘Oye! Mister! Mister!’ he yelled, wielding his hand in the air, his breath congesting his throat and choaking him after all his slogging just to get here.

The man, Williams, it would turn out to be, cranked his head, scrunched up his eyes, and frowned as he scrutinised the ragged rascal of a robin. Marching over to him, Williams brusquely snapped: ‘What is it? Who are you? You don’t work here, do ya?’

The boy snorted and smirked as if the idea were laughable. ‘Naw!’

Recovering himself from his brief fit of chuckling, Billy returned to the matter at hand: ‘Where is he?’ he asked, his manner painfully blunt.

Williams’ eyes darted left and right in bewilderment, trying to make sense of what the troublemaker meant. ‘Whit?’ he scoffed.

Billy rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly. ‘Where is _he_?’ he repeated, his hands gesturing in wide orbits like a concert conductor tackling a particularly tricky segment from some pretentious symphony. But on getting no response, his eyes broadened, and his mouth hung open like a fish, at a loss to understand how a fully-grown man could be so thick in the head. This man was clearly a proper wooden spoon!

‘The man?’ he recapped, his voice blaring like a foghorn. ‘The Measter? Thornton? Where ─ is ─ he?’ he solicited, the last part delivered as slowly as a snail, to give the dense listener the chance to catch up.

Williams stroked his greying whiskers and pulled himself to his full height, which, admittedly, was not that impressive an altitude. He was outraged by the boy’s lack of respect and a tad apprehensive as to why such a nasty little brat should want to see the master.

‘Now then, I do not think his whereabouts is any of your concer ─’

But Billy soon cut him off. ‘I need to see him!’ he chirped earnestly. ‘I have this for him!’ he explained, flourishing the small yet significant piece of paper.

Williams let out a comprehending sigh, and it ruffled his moustache like a light summer breeze skimming across a meadow. Ah, the boy was no tearaway after all, he was just a messenger boy, which he supposed was harmless enough.

‘I see,’ he said, much more calmly. ‘Very well, hand it over,’ he ordered, reaching out his hand to take it.

However, much to his surprise, Billy sprang back like a cat that had just been scalded. He crushed the letter to his chest and held it there tight, his fist like a clamp that nothing and nobody could wrench open.

‘Naw!’ he dissented with a scowl. ‘I canna dae that!’ he clarified most gravely. ‘I need to ‘and it to him…in person. I ain’t talking to the monkey, Mister! I want the organ grinder!’

Williams clicked his teeth, his frustration mounting, the simmering pot of stress about ready to boil over. The master had been in a funny mood for weeks now, and was making his life deplorably difficult, so he was in no mind to be messing about wasting his time with insolent children.

Taking a deep breath, he said through gritted teeth: ‘The thing is lad, it’s commendable that you’re taking your errand seriously, but I assure you, he will get ─’

‘I ─ _ain’t_ ─ handing ─ it ─ over!’ Billy repeated with a dogged determination that even made Williams raise his eyebrows with bowled over astonishment.

Stepping back, standing tall, and with an indomitable stare, Billy squared up to his adversary and said in a low and uncompromising tone: ‘Now then, are you gonna tell me where I can find Mr Thornton, or ain’t ya?’

Williams opened his mouth, but only a feeble stutter filtered out.

‘Well? Speak up!’ Billy bullied, his eyes narrowing as he intimidated the poor supervisor, his browbeating as ruthless as a feral cat toying with its food before finally putting it out of its misery.

‘I’ll ask you one more time,’ he barked, the letter held up like some sort of holy grail. ‘Where’s the bulldog?’

* * *

The second that Billy had departed, Dixon closed her mistress’s bedroom door and turned to face her, her features far from smiling. 

‘That’s it!’ she said tersely, wringing the ends of her apron in her hands with pent-up vexation. ‘I’ve had enough!’

‘Dixon,’ Mrs Hale commenced carefully, hoping to appease the woman who had long been her constant companion and confidant.

‘No!’ Dixon responded, shaking her head, trying to hold back the tears that were now soaking her eyelashes. ‘I am sorry, you know how much I care for you. Lord knows I have been your dedicated maid these past thirty years. All the same, I had hoped that after all we had been through together, that I was perhaps more than just a servant to you,’ she said sadly, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘But I just cannot stand to see you like this!’ she blubbed.

Mrs Hale was devastated. She had not realised that during the recent pandemonium that had developed around her commitment in advancing her daughter’s happiness, that she had neglected the feelings of someone who had come to mean more to her than a mere servant. Indeed, to Maria Hale, Jessima Dixon was like family, a woman who had shared more ups and downs with her than her own mother or sister ever had, a sororal bond that had endured many of life’s trials. 

‘Dixon,’ she opened softly, ‘I can explain ─’

‘You are ill!’ Dixon shrieked abruptly.

Both ladies stilled and stared at each other, an excruciating tension stifling the space between them.

‘I know that,’ Mrs Hale admitted after a long pause, her voice barely audible.

‘Do you?’ Dixon sighed. ‘I sometimes wonder. There is no getting away from it. You are…very unwell,’ she sustained, unable to bring herself to acknowledge out lout just how ill her mistress truly was.

‘And while you should be resting, preserving your strength, you are stirring yourself up into these flutters that I just…I cannot abide it! ─ seeing you so agitated. I want it to end now, or you will break my heart and drive me away from this house!’ she warned. ‘So, Mistress, if you will forgive me, I insist upon knowing what is going on.’ Dixon wiped her bleary eyes with a fresh handkerchief from a pile of laundry.

Mrs Hale extended an arm and beckoned her faithful maid to sit by her side. ‘Come, old friend, I have much to impart.’

Dixon sniffed and did as she was bid, settling on the edge of Mrs Hale’s bed, waiting patiently to hear the truth.

Mrs Hale took a deep breath. ‘If I have played my cards right, then Margaret will be engaged before the night is out,’ she announced with absolute seriousness.

‘Crikey!’ Dixon gasped. ‘You have my full attention.’

* * *

As a cloak of darkness wrapped itself around the town, the close of the working day drew near and signalled the end of the long working week. John had brought Higgins and Whitehall back to his office once more to study a series of production plans for a particularly lucrative order that had come in from Spain of all places. John needed to apprise Whitehall because he was now the warehouse supervisor, so he would be responsible for ensuring that the finished products were properly stored in order to protect the cotton from the plights of rats and rain, until it was time to efficiently export it to whatever far-flung corner of the world it was destined to travel to. John had no real reason for consulting Higgins, but he had a feeling that the man would prove useful, so the master had decided to test him and bring him along for the sake of it, waiting to see how the Princeton man would handle the situation. However, in line with Higgins’ exemplary performance throughout the day, John was finding that he was both annoyed and astounded by the union leader’s aptitude for assiduousness, and it was really getting under his skin.

As the three men huddled around his desk pouring over contracts, accounts, purchase orders, rotas, and invoices, they were disturbed by a most riotous intrusion as the door to John’s office unexpectedly burst open with a bang.

The three grown men all jumped with fright, while Mr Whitehall screamed, Higgins stumbled backwards, and John scowled.

Lifting their heads, they witnessed Williams crashing into the room like a spiralling whirlwind, crossing swords with a small boy half his size. In this unseemly collie-shangles, the pair were tossing and turning as they wrestled with each other, the two of them locked in an entanglement of kicking legs and flailing arms.

‘I told you, he’s not to be distu ─’ Williams croaked, since the boy’s elbow was currently wedged against his gullet.

‘What the hell is going on?!’ John shouted, his roar making everyone and everything in the room come to a grinding halt.

Billy twisted his head to look up at John and look up he did, for the man seemed to soar to a dizzying height, rather like a mountain.

Billy gulped.

Oh ‘eck! Thornton was more terrifying up close than he had imagined.

But there was no time to be a lily-livered coward, so instead, Billy extradited himself from Williams’ grasp. He stood straight and sober, like a soldier on parade before his king. Holding out his shaky hand with ceremonial formality, he clearly announced: ‘I ‘ave a letter for you, Sir!’

John blinked rapidly.

‘I’m awful sorry, Mr Thornton,’ Williams stuttered, afraid that this debacle of a skirmish would be the end of him. ‘He wouldn’t listen! I told him you weren’t to be disrupted, but he insisted on giving it to you in person.’

John was furious. His fierce eyes flitted between his manager and the gangly boy, unsure of whom to castigate first. However, fortunately for the two transgressors, he was in no mood to deal with any more petty problems, not today.

‘Get out!’ he snarled to the both of them. ‘Put the letter on my desk and leave. Immediately!’

But as John lowered his head to resume his work, he froze as he heard the boy boldly and brazenly reply: ‘I can’t do that! I need you to read it!... _Now_!’

All three onlookers, Williams, Higgins, and Whitehall, each took a sharp intake of breath, sucking every last ounce of oxygen out of the room. Poor boy, so young, so innocent, it was a shame that he probably would not live to see another day. Fortuitously, the master and the mischief-maker were separated by a solid wooden desk, so with any luck, this barrier would be enough of a barricade to let the offender scarper away to safety before the man had the chance to breach the blockade and throttle him.

John growled.

Higgins could vow that he saw the man’s claws open and scrape along the desk, sharpening for the kill. Then again, it was dark, so it may have been a trick of the light. On the other hand, what did people say about werewolves and moonlight? It was superstitious twaddle, but Higgins found himself shuffling in front of the window to prevent any silvery shimmers of moonbeams from streaming in…just in case.

Gradually, the master lifted his head, a menacing glint dancing across his cobalt orbs.

‘What did you say?’ John challenged, his baritone tenor perilously low.

Billy did not retreat at John’s ferocious tone, but instead stepped closer, much like David standing up to Goliath, causing the spectators in the ringside seats to take a second and noisy intake of breath.

Billy fixed John with an unwavering stare. ‘I ain’t going nowhere until you’ve opened it, Mr Thornton,’ he explained. ‘I ‘ave been given strict orders that I’m to put it in your hands and watch while you read it, to make sure that you definitely have. They don’t want any mistakes this time, see.’

John scoffed. He would not admit it, but he was more than a little fascinated by this pup’s bricky audacity, for he always admired a spirit that refused to be broken and brought to heel. In that moment, a pair of bluey-green eyes flashed in his mind, reminding him of a certain someone who could not be tamed, and who he would never wish to conquer and control, for she was absurdly glorious in her soulful wilfulness. At first, the thought of her made him smile privately to himself, but as the image of her faded away, John’s glower soon returned, more formidable and unforgiving than ever. 

‘ _Who_?’ John jeered, folding his arms. ‘Who doesn’t want any mistakes?’

‘The lady.’

John’s head shot up and his breath hitched. ‘ _Lady_? What lady?’

Billy rolled his eyes. ‘The one at Crampton.’

What happened next, none of the bystanders would ever forget until their dying day. As quick as the snap of a finger and thumb, John dived over the table and lunged towards Billy, snatching the letter out of his hands with a force that was extraordinary in both its energy and eagerness.

John did not linger to examine the address or handwriting, instead he ripped open the envelope and with a loud rustling, he unfolded the paper inside. As he did this, two rectangles fell out and fluttered to the ground. Squinting down, he could have sworn they were…no…surely not…

Bending to retrieve them, John reclaimed two playing cards from his dusty office floor:

The King and Queen of Hearts.

Returning his attention to the paper, he inspected the three short and simple lines:

_I know everything._

_Come quickly._

_Mrs Hale._

John’s face crinkled with confusion.

_What?_

As John continued to stare at the note in silence, his hands absently raking through his hair, Billy piped up: ‘She wanted to make sure you read it after what happened with the last one.’

John spun round abruptly to scrutinise the messenger, his eyes wide and wild.

‘What did you just say?’

Billy huffed. What was wrong with people? Why did they never listen? ‘She wanted to make sure you got her message this time. She’s worried something happened to the one I brought last night. She thinks one of your lot might have lost it…I know I didn’t,’ he mumbled under his breath.

John approached Billy so fast that the boy nearly reeled off his feet. If he had not been able to steady himself and had indeed teetered to the ground, his bottom would have been well and truly toasted on the red-hot fire that burnt brightly in the grate behind him.

‘You were here last night, weren’t you?’ John interrogated, towering over him like a madman.

Billy nodded. ‘Aye, I brought you a letter,’ he confirmed, poking John’s arm with his finger. ‘I brought two yesterday. One in the daytime, then another one when it was dark and snowing.’

‘A second letter? What letter?’ John asked, his restlessness swelling inside him like a balloon. ‘I did not receive another letter!’

Billy stuck out his chin. ‘Well, that wasn’t my fault, Mister! I gave it to the cranky man at the door, at your house, and he took it away. But I did bring it and handed it over!’ he contended, stomping his foot for effect.

John stepped back. Stunned. Dazed. Utterly knocked for six.

His gaze dropped to the floor. His mind was spinning. He could sense a battering of conflicting emotions inflaming his stomach. He felt sick as it fermented in his gut, this blended brew of unease that festered and threatened to intoxicate his lucidity, gnawing away at him like a parasite.

‘She seems distressed, Sir,’ Billy went on offhandedly, sifting through the books on John’s desk with boldfaced irreverence. He liked the funny squiggles folks put down on paper. He wished he could understand them. ‘The old lady seemed cross that you had not answered her. I think she was expectin’ you to go and see her…but you didn’t.’

John stopped.

Then he stiffened.

It suddenly all made sense.

He glared as something deep within him snapped in two.

‘Excuse me!’

With that, John swept out of the door and back towards his house, abandoning three mortal men and a God, the unlikely troop all staring after him, their jaws near enough on the floor in shock.

As he made to leave, John dropped a hand into his pocket and after rummaging around, he drew out a sovereign piece, which he placed in Billy’s palm, before gently patting him on the shoulder.

Needless to say, the God of messages and merchants fainted right there and then on the spot.

* * *

The passenger stepped off the train.

They stretched their neck and bent it backwards, forwards, and sideways, trying to dispel that damn irksome creak niggling away at the top of their spine.

Crack! – ah, that was better.

As they let their gaze slowly trail up from the ground, the newcomer frowned.

_This was Milton?_

The traveller had come to realise that Outwood Station was situated roughly six miles from the centre of the city, so they now found themselves stranded on the fringes of town like an item of lost luggage. However, in the distance, they could spy the outline of an ugly horizon looming tall and threatening, swathed in the murky shroud of nightfall. At first, it looked like a mass of soaring hills, but it could not be, because they were too narrow at the tips and too close together to make that a realistic perspective.

No, if the observer strained their eyes, they could fathom what they were seeing. They were looking at a crowd of factories, their spire like chimneys reaching high into the sky and piercing the clean fresh air, polluting it with their redundant fumes. 

The stranger grunted.

They hated such sights. It was downright sacrilegious. Hell! – England was going to the dogs.

They may not have been a staunchly pious person, one who held fast and firm to a belief in God, the same faith that was the cornerstone of their family’s way of life. No, they were more secular in their philosophies and had seen too much of the injustice in this strange old world to trust in a divine being. But all the same, the idea of this great earth with all its natural beauty being savagely violated by the fetid impurity of industry, with its rapacious greed that swallowed up the greenery of ancient landscapes, made this wanderer’s skin crawl and blood boil.

As they watched a sickly cloud of putrid smog rise high into the air and mingle together as a mass of ashen grey that smudged the sky and extinguished the twinkling stars, the newcomer to this northern industrial outpost snorted. They may not have known exactly how to get to the heart of Milton, but they could bloody well guess.

Picking up their bag, they began to walk, muttering under their breath, listing the mounting reasons as to why they were ill-disposed to approve of this modern metropolis, wondering why in the name of all that was good had their family chosen to remove themselves to such a hellhole.

Wrapping their coat around them and hauling their hat down to obscure their face, the stranger stalked towards Milton in search of a small and minor neighbourhood called...wait…they checked the address again…ah, yes…Crampton.

* * *

John hastened across the yard towards his house.

It had never seemed so far away.

Once inside, he raced up the stairs, taking two, three, sometimes four at a time. His mind was a riot. A strange combination of memories, hopes, visions, and drunken recollections all flitted through his fevered head, all brawling for attention, all battling for validation, each one determined to be declared the winner, to be crowned the truth.

When he stormed into the drawing room, John found his mother sitting at the large dining table, diligently tending to her embroidery. At the unexpected and boisterous entrance of her son, Mrs Thornton jerked and yelped, pricking her finger on the point of her needle.

Sucking her punctured digit, she peered at her son, her face flushed with fright. ‘John, what ─’

‘Where is it?’ he barked, heading straight for the bureau, his body rigid with the rage that coursed through his every fibre.

John dragged open the heavy drawers and began to impatiently rummage through them, pulling out papers, books, parcels, knickknacks, anything he could lay his hands on. He fumbled hurriedly with each item, searching for substantiation to corroborate his theory, before violently hurling each useless article to the ground.

His mother leapt to her feet. ‘John?’ she shrieked, her heart pounding. ‘John? What is the matter?’

‘I asked you: where is it?!’ he repeated, more loudly, his back still turned to her as he hunted for his proof, his gruff tone one of seething wrath. 

Mrs Thornton could not speak.

She could not deceive him a second time by lying yet again. However, she could also not bring herself to deny any knowledge of what he alluded to. Instead, she stood still, her silence a deafening admission of her guilt.

‘John…I ─’

‘Where is the letter, Mother?’ he shouted, his roar so thunderous that the glass in the windows trembled.

At last, John drew out his mother’s Bible. After shaking it, a solitary piece of paper escaped the confines of its sacred pages and landed in his hands.

He quickly snatched it up and read it, his eyes scanning the few lines over and over again.

_Dear Mr Thornton,_

_I would very much appreciate it if you could oblige me by coming to call on myself this evening or as soon as is convenient. I am aware that you are a busy man, but there are matters that I wish to discuss with you urgently. I shall be ready to receive you at any point this evening, or, if you prefer, please send word of a preferred date and time. However, Sir, I both request and recommend that you attend as soon as possible, as it is in your best interests as well as mine._

_Yours most earnestly,_

_Mrs Maria Hale_

John breathed heavily, his body heaving.

Mrs Thornton took a nervous step towards her son. ‘John ─’

‘When did this come?’ he interrogated, his voice ominously quiet.

She swallowed and folded her arms around herself. ‘Last night.’

Finally, John turned to face his mother.

She felt her gut clench. Instead of his face being awash with resentment, it was pale with grief.

‘You lied to me.’

‘I know,’ she replied, so faintly that he could hardly hear her.

‘You…you hid it from me,’ came his tense accusation, the words sticking in his throat, for he was hardly able to say them, the concept of her betrayal more than he could stomach. ‘You told me…I don’t understand,’ John faltered, shaking his head in disbelief.

Mrs Thornton shifted closer. ‘I was…John…my son…’ The woman’s speech was unsteady as she shuddered. ‘I was just trying to protect you,’ she tried to explain, laying a hand on his arm.

But John recoiled and staggered away from her. ‘Protect me?’ he hissed. ‘From what?’

‘From…from what was in that letter…from getting hurt again…from…from them!’ she claimed, desperate for him to understand.

‘ _Them_?’ John echoed, emphasising the insanity of it all.

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘The Hales.’

John’s head slowly shook from side to side with the blank bewilderment of one who is utterly lost. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh, John!’ his mother cried, waving her hands in the air in frustration. ‘Can’t you see? They’ve manipulated you, all of them. The father derives an income from you for those ridiculous lessons. The mother uses you like a servant to fetch and carry for her, bringing her dainties to feed her languid appetites. And the daughter ─’

Now it was John’s turn to step forward. ‘Don’t you dare!’ he warned.

‘And the daughter!’ Mrs Thornton repeated rebelliously, resolved to challenge her son’s authority. It may not have been wise, but it would be worth it if only she could help him see sense. ‘She has manipulated you worst of all. She flirted with you, she lured you, she encouraged you, she actually threw herself at you, and then she snubbed you. At best she has toyed with your affections, and at worst, she is a shameless tease who has dug her claws into you, but refuses to marry you, and now she refuses to let you go. Your oh-so-perfect Miss Hale has humiliated you, John! She is wicked!’

‘STOP!’ John bellowed, banging his fist against the chest of drawers. 'That is enough!'

Mrs Thornton winced at the intensity of his fury. His temper was so titanic in its force that it filled every nook and cranny of the room.

‘You will never speak of Margaret like that again. Do you understand?’ he cautioned, his steely timbre hushed, brooking no disagreement. ‘ _Never_!’

Mrs Thornton laughed, but it was a weak laugh, one born of sheer incredulity. ‘She is not even your wife, and yet you would rather defend her over your own mother.’

‘She may as well be my wife!’ John retorted before he had the chance to stop and think of the irrationality of his words. ‘She is…in here,’ he explained, his fist thumping at his heart. ‘She may not be mine, but my heart is hers, it is already wed to her, for it is hers and hers alone,’ he justified. ‘I know it is unreasonable, but I cannot help myself. I may never get to marry her, thanks to you. But still, wife or no wife, I will always stand up for her…and if that means shielding Miss Hale, Margaret, from you, then so be it.’

Mrs Thornton blinked. ‘What do you mean: thanks to me?’

‘Because of this!’ he ridiculed, brandishing the letter from the night before as if it were a crucial and damming piece of evidence in one of his courts of law.

‘You may not approve of the Hales, but I value their friendship more than you could ever hope to understand. Mrs Hale wrote to me with the faith that I would do the right thing and go there to speak with her, but I have not. What will she think of me?’ he asked, his voice dripping with shame. ‘That I am a coward? That I am not honourable? That I do not treat my responsibilities with the upmost respect?’ he sighed.

‘Or worse! – that my feelings for her daughter are fickle?’ he groaned, the very notion strangling him to the point where he could hardly breathe.

John leaned his back against the wall.

‘Mrs Hale will not just think me ungentlemanly, I could live with that defamation, as I have not always conducted myself as well as I should have where Margaret is concerned,’ he conceded. ‘But she will also think me undeserving of her daughter’s love because I did not take the trouble to answer her summons. I have not come as she asked. It looks like I do not care,’ John lamented, unable to stand the thought of it.

‘I have not behaved as I should. I have not been accountable for my feelings and my actions. And Margaret…God! – sweet Margaret. She will think she means nothing to me,’ he whispered, his spirit crushed.

‘I had the opportunity, an invitation to go and mend all my mistakes, or at least to try. But you have taken that chance away from me. And for that…I cannot excuse you,’ he finished, lifting his eyes from the carpet and fixing his mother with a harrowing glare.

‘John!’ she breathed. ‘I just…I’m sorry! I just…you’ve been so distraught; I could not accept seeing you hurt again. What do you think Mrs Hale wants? To welcome you into her family with open arms? Don’t be ridiculous! We are not like them. She will sneer at you, reproach you, and turn you away from their house. John, I could not bear to see my boy hurt anymore.’

‘I am not a boy, Mother!’ John boomed. ‘I am a man,’ he said, holding out his arms, almost as if letting her look upon him in his full stature would make her truly see him for the first time.

‘I am a grown man. I know that you have been there through thick and thin while I have fought my way through the hardships of life, and God knows that I am grateful for everything you have done! My humble thanks will never dwindle. But this time, Mother, you have gone too far!’ John censured sternly.

‘I am a man who owns the right to make his own triumphs and tragedies. If Miss Hale is to forever be my torment rather than my reward, then that is _my_ struggle to endure, _my_ judgement to make, whether it be right or wrong, _not yours_!’

Placing the two letters into his breast pocket, John began to walk towards the door.

‘And now, what little hope I may have had, you have probably stolen, because Mrs Hale will certainly not welcome me with open arms, not now that I have stayed away and slighted not only her, but also her only daughter,’ John seethed. ‘No, Mother, far from defending me, you have devastated me and my chances of happiness.’

Then, turning to look at her one last time, the burden of sadness overwhelming his heart, he whispered: ‘And for that, Mother, I will _never_ forgive you!’

With that, John spun on his heels and marched out of the room.

‘John!’ his mother called and pleaded after him. ‘John!! I’m sorry!!’

But it was too late. He was gone. And he did not look back.

* * *

‘Ouch!’ Margaret yelped, as Dixon dragged the brush through her entangled hair with zeal, the tousles at the ends catching in the teeth of the comb and tugging at her scalp.

Margaret was sitting in front of her vanity dresser on a stool while the maid was stationed behind her, cooing over her and cleaning her like she had just returned from playing in a puddle of mud.

Margaret stared up at Dixon and glared in defiance at the brush-wielding tyrant who seemed intent on attacking her head. It was all very peculiar indeed, since Margaret had managed to look after herself quite well for a number of years, just relying on the servant to tie and loosen her corset or fastenings from time to time.

‘Remind me, Dixon, what is all this in aid of? Margaret inquired for the umpteenth time. ‘Owe!’ she wailed again as the brush scraped the base of her neck.

Dixon smiled to herself. ‘Oh, nothing, Miss Margaret,’ she nattered casually, careful to evade divulging the truth, for she was under strict instructions to keep her lips buttoned.

‘I told you, your Mother is feeling a little sprightlier tonight, so would like you to come and sit with her. She wants the two of you to spend some time together as mother and daughter, that is all,’ she prattled, not letting the cat out of the bag. Dixon had deemed that the best line of defence was to remain ambiguous, so she avoided looking the young lady straight in the eye and maintained an air of nonchalance.

The truth was, that Mrs Hale had brought Dixon into her confidence, and in order to gain her faithful friend’s support, she had decided to be honest. She had proceeded to divulge as much information about the past two days as she considered appropriate. Mrs Hale had told Dixon that Margaret and Mr Thornton loved each other, but that they had undergone a grave falling out, causing a chasm of discord to separate them and impede their union. She also confessed that it was her mission to do what she could to bring the two of them together and that tonight, she very much hoped he would come to the house, so that she could encourage their reconciliation.

At first, Dixon had been horrified, spitting out all sorts of unpleasant insults about Mr Thornton, the people of Milton, and tradesfolk in general. However, Mrs Hale had finally managed to pacify her, explaining that she too had harboured such concerns and prejudices, but that after a considerable amount of thought, she had managed to overcome her supercilious qualms. Mrs Hale said that on reflection, she now believed Mr Thornton was a worthy contender for her daughter’s heart and that if being together would secure Margaret’s happiness, then the dying mother would do everything in her power to help them.

Following a prolonged episode of grumbling and griping, Dixon had eventually conceded. After hearing Mrs Hale discuss a long list of reasons as to why she considered Mr Thornton a man of honour, the servant had to confess that he may not have the gentlemanly credentials that she would hope for a daughter descended of the Beresfords, but she could see that he was not a bad man at heart. To be sure, Dixon could not claim to have much experience of romance, but even although she had always resented Mr Hale for taking her mistress ─ the brightest jewel she had ever known ─ away from the society that befitted a lady of her breeding, she could not deny that her marriage had been founded on love. And, well, if Miss Margaret could have the same, then it did not matter if her prince charming wore a crown or a cap, so long as he made her happy.

Once Dixon had given in, Mrs Hale sighed in relief. She was pleased that her companion had accepted the plan and had agreed to assist. In fact, even although the ailing woman would never have disclosed it, she desperately needed Dixon, not so much now, but soon. She knew that in a matter of weeks or months, Margaret may well be a bride, the mistress of her own home, and a new mother, and that she would need the help of an experienced woman. And, after many years of devoted service, Mrs Hale trusted that she could leave the female concerns of her daughter as she entered this novel and exciting, yet daunting phase of her life in no finer hands than that of dear Dixon.

Dixon was recalled from her trance as she caught sight of Margaret’s face in the mirror, the young lady peering at her in a most disconcerting way as she tried to work out the cause of the servant’s unusual behaviour.

‘Yes, but…,’ Margaret dissented, as Dixon began to rub cream on her face. ‘I understand that, and it is all very well, but it…oh, that’s cold! – it does not explain what all this fuss is about. You have not spent this much time and effort scrubbing me since I was a child,’ Margaret protested suspiciously, wincing as Dixon nipped her cheeks to inspire a healthy blush.

‘Oh, it is just nice to make an effort, that is all,’ the woman retorted, going to the bed to fetch Margaret’s dress, for the girl was currently sitting in no more than her undergarments. Yes, as much as she could well imagine a certain gentleman might be delighted to see her thus clad, it was certainly not her intention to let Miss Margaret wander downstairs in just her stays and drawers. Besides, all that exposed skin was putting her at risk of catching a chill.

Delicately clasping the edges of the gown, Dixon hoisted it up. ‘Now then,’ she said wistfully. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’

Margaret rose to her feet and sighed. But as she turned to look at Dixon, she froze. Dixon was not holding up one of Margaret’s dresses, nor was it any ordinary dress, it was…

‘That is Mother’s dress!’ she breathed. ‘The one she wore when she became…,’ Margaret swallowed, ‘…engaged.’

Dixon nodded sagely, her eyes welling up with tears.

The two women stood enthralled in a hallowed hush, both wordlessly admiring the gown. It was simple yet exquisitely handsome, the style timeless in its elegance. It was blue with a maya-coloured skirt and bodice, trimmed with a navy bow around the slender waistline. The sleeves were a translucent cobweb of white, finishing just below the elbows, and the sleeves and shoulders were speckled with the most intricate series of snowy florals and sapphire-shaded beads, each woven together like a bejewelled garden.

‘I do not understand,’ Margaret said quietly, her fingers timidly stretching out to stroke the material in awe.

She had only seen this dress once before when she was six. It had been preserved in a box, carefully enfolded in tissue paper, never coming out in case it frayed at the slightest touch or faded in the sunlight. But she remembered it, oh so well. Her mother had shown it to her little girl and promised that one day, when the time was right, she too could wear it.

Dixon laid down the dress and came to stand by Margaret. Smiling at the woman before her, she felt her eyes brimming with emotion. Margaret, Miss Margaret, the tiny little thing that she had helped deliver into this world, she was no child anymore.

Beautiful. Valiant. Kind. Resilient. Fiery.

How strange to think that the baby she had held in her arms was now a woman, one who was ready to fly the nest and start her own life as a wife and mother. Heavens! – she was going to be magnificent! She was going to be…well, she would be Margaret, and that was as fine a description as there ever was.

Taking Margaret’s hands in her own, Dixon paused and considered what to say. ‘Miss Margaret, I know you and I have not always got along as well as we would have liked. But tonight, I ask you to trust me, please. Your mother has asked for this, it means a great deal to her, and we…well, she does not have long left to make requests of any kind, you and I know that,’ she said glumly. ‘So, Miss, please, grant her this wish, one of the last she will ever be able to make, let her see her daughter wearing _this_ dress.’

Margaret glanced nervously towards the gown. It was not that she did not want to wear it, she did. It was so unbelievably lovely, it was just…she felt…somehow unworthy. This dress, it held so much history, so much promise, so much hope. It would be expecting the woman in it to be lucky in love, and well, Margaret knew she would be a disappointment and in a strange way, she did not want to let the inanimate robe of silk and sparkles down, and, by extension, her beloved mother.

‘It is just a dress,’ Dixon nudged gently, almost as if she could read Margaret’s thoughts. ‘You do not have to wear it if you do not want to. But it will mean the world to her, and you…you will look so very beautiful.’

Margaret thought for a moment longer, just a moment, then, she smiled.

‘Good!’ Dixon sniffed. ‘Now then,’ she cheered, shaking Margaret’s hands jovially. ‘Let’s get you ready…you have a special night ahead of you!’

* * *

John dashed up to his bedroom, his heavy footsteps disturbing the floorboards that squeaked and groaned in complaint. After yanking open a drawer in his bedside table, he collected up a tiny box of blue velvet. After carefully placing it in his pocket and patting it protectively, he quitted his house, his feet finally free to head in the direction they wanted, to take him to Crampton.

As he strode across the yard, he found Williams, Higgins, and Whitehall all waiting for him, an assembly of baffled faces. Nevertheless, he did not have time to stop and speak. As John streamed past, all he could mutter was: ‘I must go.’

As the men watched the retreating figure of the Master of Marlborough Mills, they each shook their heads.

‘The man’s gone mad!’ Williams huffed, before wandering off to resume his work.

‘Where is he going in such a hurry?’ Mr Whitehall asked Higgins, completely stumped by the whole episode.

However, Higgins, always the sharp observer, was the only one not left mystified. He simply smiled and smirked, yet again.

‘Well, my lad,’ he mused. ‘If I were a betting man, then I would wager that our man Thornton is off to see his lass.’

‘Lass? Lass?’ Mr Whitehall repeated like a parrot. ‘I did not know Mr Thornton was courting?! Folks always say he is married to this mill. Is it serious? Are they to marry?’ he babbled on.

‘With any luck, they will be after tonight,’ Higgins foretold. ‘It’s about time! Mind you, so long as they both behave themselves and don’t make a pig’s ear of it,’ he chortled. ‘No, Good luck to him! He’ll need it!’

Mr Whitehall padded away, shaking his head and mumbling something about the whole thing being extraordinary.

As Higgins stooped with his hands in his pockets and watched as John disappeared into the distance, he whispered: ‘Go, Thornton! Go get your girl!’

* * *

‘Now then, you can open your eyes.’

As Margaret’s eyelids fluttered open, she gasped.

She was standing in her mother’s gown before the mirror.

Blue, beautiful, breath-taking. She was a belle. 

‘Is that really me?’ she said softly, her hands caressing the sleek skirt that made her nerves tingle with a strange thrill.

The gown fitted her perfectly, moulding to the curves of her body like it had always been designed to fit her precise shape. The colours of the bold cloth were striking, and they illuminated every part of her, as if she were glowing, lit by candles that flickered from beneath her skin. Her eyes glittered and she lifted a hand to play with her curls that cascaded down her back in a loose arrangement, letting Margaret feel oddly free and feminine.

Dixon pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to repress the tears that now trundled down her cheeks.

‘Oh! Miss Margaret! You look so…so…,’ she blubbed.

Margaret breathed deeply. ‘I look like my mother.’

* * *

John had never moved so fast in his life.

He could hardly remember anything of his two-mile sprint, not recalling a single road, a single turn, a single step. He vaguely recollected people stopping to greet him and speak with him, each one passing the time of day, or seeking his opinion on a matter of commerce or the law. But for the life of him, John could not say who he met, nor what they said, for his mind was too preoccupied with the letters in his pocket and the events of the past two days.

As he veered onto a familiar street, John stopped in his tracks and came to a grinding halt. He looked up at a house, a particular house that sat unobtrusively in the corner of an inconsequential row of dwellings. On the outside, it really was terribly modest, so much so that nobody would ever assume anything of consequence had ever taken place there. Nevertheless, to John, it had become the centre of his world, for there lived a person that meant more to him than anything or anyone else ever could. So much had happened there in a few short months. He had made a friend, he had learnt many lessons, he had fallen in love, he had experienced heartache, and he had made mistake after mistake. Yes, it was an inconsequential looking place, but to John, its importance could not have been more consequential. 

Number 10, Linden Street, Crampton.

Ten.

Little did John realise how profound that figure was to him today, his lucky number. In ten minutes, he would find out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. In ten days, he and Margaret would be married. In ten months, they would welcome their first child into the world, a baby girl. And in ten years, John would be the most prominent and influential master and magistrate in all of Darkshire, a man who led a passionate and principled life, that at the heart, was driven by his devotion for his wonderful wife and their precious children.

But, for now, to John, ten was just an arbitrary sum as his eyes fell upon the brass number plaque on the railings of this consequentially inconsequential house. 

As John stared at that house tonight, he felt goosebumps crest his skin and skim the cotton of his shirt sleeves. Tonight, this house would be the stage for this decisive chapter in his life to unfold and conclude. Tonight, either this house would witness the fulfilment of his heart’s deepest desires, or it would witness their demise. Either way, he knew that tonight would bring a close to this unresolved intermission in his life, and tomorrow, as a new day dawned, it would either be filled with happiness or with hopelessness. But the decision was not his, no, it rested in the hands of others, and he could only pray that they would not take this treasured dream away from him once and for all.

Striding to the steps, John walked up them slowly, solemnly, struggling to steady himself. He had run here, but now, John was finding himself overcome with trepidation, hardly able to move a muscle, his body weighted down like lead by his dread. Taking a deep breath, John cast his eyes to the ground, lifted his fist, and knocked. 

He could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

It was on the fifth thrum of John’s heartbeat that the door opened, and a bright pool of light bathed him in a halo that blinked with the radiance of candlelight. John breathed heavily, and then he gradually raised his head, his eyes ready to acknowledge whoever stood at the door, ready to meet his fate.

Nevertheless, as he let his gaze fall upon the person who stood opposite him, it was not the one he both longed and feared to see.

Dixon leaned against the door frame and sniffed knowingly, looking him up and down as if checking whether he had dressed properly for his trial before Mrs Hale. John could only hope that Dixon was not a member of the jury, because if she were, his doom would be a foregone conclusion.

‘Well, you certainly took your time,’ she chastised with raised eyebrows. She had been waiting for him for the last half hour, one eye and one ear trained on the front door while she sat with Billy in the kitchen, who was currently hungrily wolfing down a bowl of stew.

John suppressed a scowl, for he knew that the dragon of a servant was not fond of him, and he did not have the strength or stamina to battle with her, not tonight. Subduing the urge to bite back, he reached into his breast pocket and produced the two letters.

‘I’ve been summoned,’ he said plainly.

Nevertheless, much to his surprise, Dixon did not argue. No, she merely moved aside and beckoned him to come in.

John stayed still for a second, dumbfounded by her invitation, but his hesitation did not last long as he crossed the threshold and entered the house, the theatre for the final act of this drama.

As John removed his coat and gloves, his eyes scanned the lower floor, the stairs, and the study. But his keen senses told him that there was nobody else waiting in the wings for him. He did not know if he was relieved or saddened.

Turning to Dixon, John fixed her with a forthright stare, then simply asked: ‘Where is she?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, these end notes are almost as long as the chapter: 
> 
> I hope you liked that! If you’d like to see Margaret’s dress, which is based on an original 1840s design, then please visit my FB or Twitter.
> 
> I want to thank readers for their patience, as I know this story has progressed a lot slower than you, (or I), had expected, so thank you so much for your persistence and for those who have left kind and detailed comments along the way. A quick and fair warning for the chapters still to go…even although the angst is over now, in the style of this story, the reconciliation does not just unfold in one short paragraph, it takes a little bit of coaxing for it to blossom naturally. But rest assured, it’s all happiness from now on and they do get engaged on the same night, as foretold. I also hope you’ll be glad to know that we have a few romantic, (well, I think they’re romantic), chapters after this, although I won’t presume to guess how many, as I’ve been so very wrong before. I just feel with romance stories, North and South included, we build up to them getting together and then are left hanging, so I want to give us all a little reward for our forbearance. 
> 
> Glossary:  
> Mad as Hops: Excitable.  
> Robin: A young child beggar, being compared to a starving robin.  
> Wooden Spoon: A thick head, an idiot; someone who displays astounding stupidity.  
> Collie-Shangles: Arguments and fights.  
> Bricky: Brave or fearless.


	26. NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS: PART 1 OF 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Well firstly, thank you a million for the influx of lovely comments about the last chapter. That was very kind, especially since the last two chapters took a lot of work!! I was also bowled over by the amount of support that rolled in for my boy Billy! My wee scone, as we say in Scotland. He is based on a typical Dickensian character and I wanted him to represent the lost souls of the Victorian period, children who had so much potential, but their poverty held them back in a cycle of deprivation. But after all your love for him, I have decided to bring him back in The Thornton Tales, ensuring that John and Margaret take good care of him. Who knows, Billy may end up a Member of Parliament…the sky is his limit!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this 3-part chapter. As I said before, the angst is over, but in keeping with the style of this story, the reconciliation develops at its own organic pace. Please note that it has mild references to Mrs Hale’s illness and George Thornton’s demise.

CHAPTER 26:

NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS

PART 1 OF 3

As John marched into the house, he resolved to take control of his rapidly depleting sense of calm. Striding over the doorsill, he began to remove his coat and gloves as speedily as his nimble fingers would allow, wriggling to get free so that his sweltering body could breathe. He had not realised it, but he had been perspiring profusely, what with the stress of the tense state of affairs he now found himself stuck in the middle of, and John sighed in relief as his skin met with the cool breeze of the winter night. On the surface, as John handed his garments to Dixon, one may have presumed that he was preoccupied with the menial task of undoing buttons and shirking layers of clothing, but underneath his unruffled façade, his frenzied mind was focused on something altogether more interesting.

With single-minded purposefulness and eyes as sharp as flints, John restlessly scanned the lower floor, the study, and the stairs, hoping to detect a movement, a fleeting shadow, a sign that they were not alone. However, much to his frustration, nothing flitted across his elevated eyeline, nothing caught his penetrating scrutiny.

Damn!

Growling impatiently, John transferred his attention to the poky passageway that led to the kitchen. He yearned for some tell-tale din to resonate from that quarter, such as the beating of dough against a table, the shrill whistling of a kettle boiling on the stove, or sweetest of all, the sound of someone humming or singing a pretty melody. If he strained his lugs, then he could conceivably heed the dainty pitter-patter of light feet and the pacing of slipper shoes. His ears twitched like a rabbit’s, trying to distinguish even the faintest noise drifting down the corridor, but no sound came his way, not a shuffle, not a sniffle, not a sigh.

Dang it!

John stood stock-still and let his surroundings flood his senses. Surely, he must be able to detect _something_. A sight, a touch, a sound, a taste, a smell…

Come on! – _anything_ would do!

But alas, his wits came back with a discouraging report, informing him that there was no ─

Oh, wait!

At that moment, there was a clatter from the kitchen and John bucked his head to see ─

‘ _You?_!’ John exclaimed, his tone sagging like a sack of spuds.

As John stared ahead of him, he spotted a gangly boy as grubby as a gutter. What was that cheeky rascal doing _here_?

The lad leered back at the grumpy master; his green eyes gleaming with tomfoolery. Tipping his cap mockingly, he saluted John. ‘Well, good evening to you too, good Sir!’ Billy retorted with a sarcastic bow, licking his spoon of every last morsel of dinner, a gooey droplet of gravy blotting his chin.

As John stretched his neck, he glanced behind the scraggy scamp. But no, there was nobody else there. John felt his shoulders slump under the crushing weight of his disappointment.

However, he soon straightened up, returned to his full and formidable height, and spun to face Dixon, who he was not keen to turn his back on, since she was behaving most strangely tonight. John would even go so far as to say she was being friendly, but no, he was tired, and his fraught mind must surely be playing tricks on him. Hell would have to freeze over before _that_ woman willingly welcomed him into _this_ house.

Fixing her with an unwavering stare, he boldly and brazenly demanded to know: ‘Where is _she_?’

Dixon’s mouth slanted a fraction of an inch to the side as she stifled a smirk.

The servant creased her brow theatrically.

‘ _She_?’ Dixon echoed, a deliberate emphasis on that singular syllable. ‘Where is _who_?’ she reflected, making a great show of ignorance, as if she did not know, her beady, treacle-coloured eyes sparkling with mischief.

John glared at her.

He was in no mood to be mocked.

He could feel his temper boil and a tantrum rumble in his abdomen, much like a lion getting ready to roar.

Parting the narrow line of his lips, which he had clamped shut lest his ire erupt forth like lava, John began to irritably snap: ‘M ─,’ but the mill master soon bit his careless tongue. He nipped it so hard, in fact, he could distinguish the tart tang of blood souring his taste buds.

Dixon cocked her head in amusement and waited for him to finish, her toes tip-tapping away.

But what was he to say? “ _Margaret_?” _No_ , that was too informal, far too familiar, and John was skating on dangerously thin ice as it was. Could he petition to have an audience with “Miss Hale?” Of course, it was _her_ he wanted to see, her and her alone. He was not interested in seeing anyone else these days. However, he could hardly request to speak to her, not now, not yet, not when he had expressly come in response to Mrs Hale’s summons.

Sighing resignedly and squashing the bubble of dissatisfaction that ballooned in the pit of his belly, John sullenly replied: ‘Mrs Hale.’

Dixon’s reedy eyebrows arched sceptically. But then, just as quickly, she bobbed her head and consented. ‘She is upstairs. I will take you to her now,’ she offered without so much as a gripe, motioning for him to follow her.

John was dumfounded, as dumb as a dummy.

As she made to leave, Dixon shared a wink with Billy, who watched them go, his tongue now pasting the inside of his bowl, a stray carrot stuck to his nose, which, with his shabby appearance, made him look like a cross between a snowman and a scarecrow.

John frowned. Something dubious was afoot, he was sure of it.

As the heavy tread of Dixon’s sensible boot plodded onto the first step, she called behind her: ‘She has been expecting you.’ Her tone was a tad curt, for the faithful servant had not fully forgiven Mr Thornton for keeping her mistress waiting so long, having not yet discovered his excuse for failing to call yesterday. Tradesmen! – the tardy good-for-nothings.

Needless to say, John did not miss her snide remark, and he emitted a low grumble, reverberating like a ripple of thunder rolling across the Darkshire moors.

However, Dixon had not been too perturbed by his lack of promptness, since she had been in no doubt that Mr Thornton would indeed be coming this night. As soon as Mrs Hale had confided her speculations and subsequent ploy to her maid, the two women had sat and waited, their fragile nerves on tenterhooks, ready to crack if anything should go awry. Finally, after what had felt like an age, Billy had returned from his mission. The scruffy lad had knocked loudly on the door and near enough collapsed with exhaustion, spluttering and stuttering something incoherent about bulldogs, stupid men with silly moustaches, how someone did not know anything about a second letter, and then had wittered on animatedly about how he was now as rich as a prince’s peacock, whatever that meant. To be honest, his story was a little difficult to follow given his thick twang and proclivity for inventing his own vivid phrases. 

After he had calmed down and taken a few sensible gulps of air, the boy had retold his heroic tale to Dixon and Mrs Hale, who rather fancied that he was destined to be a storyteller, since they felt certain he had not really been set upon by forty thieves. At any rate, with a dramatic flair, young Mr Mercury confirmed that he had delivered the letter to the mill master, that he had watched him open and read it, that the man had acted very oddly, and that Thornton had stormed off after absorbing his new-found knowledge. Overall, this stirring report gave the Crampton household much cause for confidence that their intricate strategy was unfolding splendidly. Nevertheless, it was too premature to celebrate, since there was still much to do before the night was out, and nothing was settled until it was settled right.

As Dixon continued to lead the visitor up the stairs, she peered over her shoulder, and the servant noticed that the man was twisting and turning in all manner of graceless directions as if he had a tic. As they climbed onto the second floor, she spotted the way he tilted towards the drawing room, his eyes swiftly searching the space before letting out a frustrated grunt through his nose.

‘What are you looking for?’ she checked.

John’s head snapped back round, and he scowled, the tips of his ears pink with chagrin.

‘Nobody,’ he huffed grumpily, sulking like a child who had been denied his sweeties.

Dixon permitted herself a sneaky smile, for the man had not discerned his blunder. She had enquired, “ _what_ ,” not, “ _who_.”

Of course, Dixon knew exactly who he was looking for. Despite her general dislike for the boorish man, she had to admit that she found his lovestruck behaviour charming. In fact, as he spun about distractedly with anticipation, his nose jutting high and low as if chasing a scent, Mr Thornton resembled a puppy searching for its mistress, and even Dixon was not so hard-hearted that she could not hope that he would find what he was looking for soon enough.

But not yet. He would have to wait. Just for a little while.

Dixon would not give the game away, but if truth be told, Mr Thornton could hunt all he liked, but he would not find who he was seeking. He could search here, there, and everywhere, scouring each room, checking in cupboards, peering behind stairs, poking under beds, even peeking below floorboards, but he would not find so much as a single chestnut hair from their head. As a matter of fact, the very person to whom he was so eager to clap eyes on was not even here, not in the house, not at present anyway.

Little did John know that he and Margaret had missed each other by no more and no less than five minutes and fifty-six seconds. If only he had walked a little faster, and she had lingered a little longer, they would have run straight into each other’s paths. But no matter, no matter, they would be reunited and reconciled soon enough.

Patience, dear reader, patience.

It had all started when Dixon had been helping Miss Margaret to get ready. The flustered maid had been stewing so much that she was sweating like a pig on a spit. It was all because Mrs Hale had requested that Dixon find a discreet way of keeping her daughter away from their visitor, so that the mother could have a private consultation with Mr Thornton before he had the chance to see or speak to Margaret himself. Dixon knew that such an arrangement was not routine when it came to courting couples, but as the mistress had reminded her, Mr Thornton and Margaret were not even courting. No, they were in conflict, so a touch of maternal meddling was absolutely essential if they hoped to untangle this pickle of a predicament before it was too late.

Mrs Hale had explained that she needed to be sure that she had not misjudged the man’s feelings and that he truly did care for Margaret. Only once she had confirmed this theory would she let Mr Thornton go to Margaret, for her primary priority was that her daughter would not be subjected to any more heartache. Nonetheless, Dixon had been unable to invent a reason that would provide a legitimate excuse for keeping the young lady cocooned in her bedroom for very long, particularly when said lady was as stubborn as a Brighton mule and did not take kindly to being told what to do.

But, as fate would have it, it seemed that luck was on their side, as not five minutes after Billy had reappeared, there had been another knock at the door. Dixon had been as jittery as a jumping-jack, fretting that their caller had arrived too soon, and she was trying to think up ways of luring him to and locking him in the broom cupboard until the coast was clear. Oh-dear, oh-dear, this was all getting too nerve-wracking for her poor old heart to cope with!

All the same, when she had gingerly peered around the frame, Dixon had not been met with a giant of a man, but a nymph of a girl, her golden hair in a pair of tidy plaits with a smart pink bow. The little lamb, called Polly, who lived two doors down, had timidly enquired whether Miss Hale would like to come and see her new baby sister, who had been born that morning. Although, Dixon had a funny feeling that a certain handsome rogue who went by the name of Master Mercury had caught the coy girl’s eye.

Still, this had presented the perfect solution, as the young lady could never say no to brooding over a baby, and Dixon had near enough shooed Miss Margaret out of the door like an unwanted cat. Margaret, having laced her hand with that of the child’s, had left the house to meet the ten-hour-old Miss Poppy Manville, faithfully promising to keep her dress clean and return home within the hour to join her mama. The dear lass was none the wiser to being a pawn in this intricate gambit in which her mother intended to outmanoeuvre each and every one of them.

With Margaret just down the road and Mr Hale at a dreary book lecture, it seemed as if all the loose ends were coming together, tied up with a neat bow! Dixon was relieved. So long as no Hale turned up when and where they should not, then all would be well.

Yes, praise be to God! The plan was going like clockwork.

As the unlikely twosome of the servant and the tradesman began to ascend the second set of stairs on the way to the top floor, John sensed his body stiffen with a peculiar combination of excitement and edginess. He had not been in this part of the house before, and he felt like a trespasser. It did not host any public rooms, instead, it was home to the private apartments belonging to the family, their own secluded sanctum away from the prying eyes of society. John felt a rousing thrill tingling his nerves. This is where his darling girl lived. This is where she slept, this is where she readied herself every morning, this is where she…John coughed…no-no-no, this was not the time to think about that…it was never the time.

When they reached the top of the landing, John’s nervousness only seemed to heighten, making him feel a little woozy, his knees wobbling like a man on stilts. He could feel himself near enough bursting with suspense as he strained his senses, striving frantically to discover any sign of her. But then, John’s heart sank, for he realised that perhaps she was hiding from him. Could it be that while he was desperate to bump into her, Margaret was equally desperate to avoid him? This miserable thought made John so depressed that he could swear that his whole body shrunk as all the hope that he had harboured in his breast deflated from him.

Nonetheless, his dispiriting musings did not last long, because before he knew what was happening, they were standing outside a closed door. John was brought back to the moment as he was revived by the thud of a firm knock, the rat-a-tat-tat of knuckles against wood as Dixon announced their presence.

‘Come in,’ came a steady voice from inside, a polished accent that John did not know well, but could still recognise as belonging to Mrs Hale.

In that instant, John panicked.

He started to worry that perhaps she was not alone, and that Mr Hale would be there too, and together, they would interrogate him about his history with their only child. Then, with unsympathetic solemnity, they would banish him from the house and refuse to let him see her again. It was a strong possibility. If John were in their shoes and was a father who found out that his daughter had attracted a man far below her station, a man who had then brashly proceeded to try and woo her, not before injuring her, proposing to her without his permission, and then shouted insults at her, then all hell would break loose. That scoundrel may as well buy or build his own coffin and bring it along, because John would be officiating the rat's funeral. Indeed, if John learned that a man that he trusted had taken such liberties with any of his children, no matter how honourable his intentions, then he would thrash the villain, not before ensuring that his innocent daughter was never subjected to the cad’s uncivilized attentions again.

Oh, good God! What if they sent Margaret back to live in London? John had not thought of that.

John felt his composure spin out of control as he tried to quell this gale of gloomy thoughts from clouding his already oppressed mind. If such an event did transpire, then he would have to try and conduct himself with dignity and take his punishment like a man of honour. After all, his ungentlemanly conduct did warrant their censure, and as a man who staunchly believed in responsibility, it was only right that he should be held accountable for his transgressions.

Nevertheless, he had a horrible feeling that if he were informed that he was to be separated from Margaret forever, then his self-control would crumble to dust and John would shout at the top of his lungs until she appeared. Either that, or he would storm through every barred door of the property, just so that he could glimpse her, even if it were for the last time.

No! He could not let this happen! Please, God! – do not take her away!

John did not know how this interview was going to turn out, but he knew what he would say. He would wholeheartedly confess his feelings for Margaret if pressed. He would freely apologise for all his errors of judgement. He would categorically refuse to force her into a marriage of convenience if that was the solution her parents sought. But above all, John would _not_ renounce his devotion for her, no matter what sanctions they threatened him with.

John knew what he would do. As soon as he entered that room, he would say sorry, a solo word that he was not accustomed to volunteering, but one that was sitting ready on the tip of his tongue. 

However, as the door opened, and he stepped bravely over the threshold and into the unknown, John’s mouth desiccated, and he found that he had lost the ability to speak, unable to string a sentence together, let alone his declaration of apology.

As he was greeted by a dim pool of candlelight, John discovered that there was no jury of disgruntled faces waiting for him. No, there was just one solitary woman, sitting in her sickbed, her regal stature like that of a Queen.

Shrouded in layers of antique shawls, Mrs Hale’s gaze trained up from the book that rested on her lap. For a moment, she remained silent, her soft brown irises regarding her visitor carefully, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. Much like the Mona Lisa, her expression was difficult to read, giving nothing away, leaving her spectator endlessly guessing what she was thinking as those taunting eyes stared back at him.

At last, Mrs Hale bowed her head and with an air of seamless tranquillity, she welcomed her guest. ‘Mr Thornton,’ she said serenely, much like a head of state greeting a delegate. ‘Thank you for coming.’

John cleared his throat, attempting to chase away the frog that croaked there. He was feeling horribly incompetent, at a loss of where to start, never having found himself in such an unholy mess before. For a man that was used to being in control, he was finding all of this most disorientating, like being stranded at sea without a paddle. 

‘Mrs Hale…I,’ he began pathetically, but there was no terminology to adequately articulate the discredit and regret that afflicted him. Now that he found himself here, sorry did not seem a big enough word, not big enough by half.

Nonetheless, John was not granted the opportunity to struggle through his clumsy speech, since he was soon interrupted by Mrs Hale, who with a flick of her wrist, ceremoniously gestured towards the high-backed chair that had been placed by her bed, intentionally facing away from the door.

‘Please, come sit by me,’ she invited.

John nodded and swiftly moved towards his designated seat, his eyes briefly flitting around the room to double and triple check that they were quite alone and that he had not missed anyone lurking in a corner. But no, it was just the two of them.

More was the pity. A pair of pretty eyes was just the tonic to cheer his weary spirit.

As he settled himself into a comfortable position, (although, he had to admit that he doubted he would be able to feel at ease in such an uncomfortable situation), Mrs Hale ventured to comment: ‘I must say, I was rather hoping that you would have come last night.’

John looked up and his face fell as he observed her critical and censorious countenance.

‘Yes…Mrs Hale,’ he faltered, his usually rich timbre piteously feeble. ‘I am more sorry than I can say. I can assure you that my postponement does not stem from discourtesy or disinterest. I was not aware of your initial letter until this evening. It was…delayed,’ he concluded sheepishly, not wishing to divulge the real reason behind his overdue visit.

Mrs Hale blinked. ‘I see,’ was all she offered in reply, dubious of what to make of such a vague defence. Nonetheless, she decided that this was not the proper occasion to press him further for details, not when there were more urgent issues to address.

Glancing at the clock, the mother deduced that she had just under forty-five minutes until Margaret returned, and with no time to spare, she knew that every second counted, so she must not waste a moment.

Mrs Hale proceeded to smile warmly and waved her dainty hand, as if signalling that his lack of punctuality was of no consequence. ‘Well, no matter,’ she settled. ‘You are here now, and that is all that matters.’

John felt his shoulders relax with relief like a wayward child who had just escaped a thorough hiding.

Mrs Hale shambled in her bed and paused while she stared at her hands, evidently readying herself to say or do something of significance. After an interval, she fixed her guest with an unflinching gaze and stated with absolute soberness: ‘Mr Thornton, I must begin by petitioning for your forgiveness.’

John’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. ‘ _I_ …forgive… _you_?’ he certified, knocked for six like a skittle that had been struck down by a bowling ball.

‘Mrs Hale, there is no need,’ he insisted, shaking his head gravely, at a loss to fathom how this benign woman could think she owed _him_ an apology.

‘Perhaps not yet,’ she concurred, her head swaying in agreement, her greying ringlets bouncing beneath her starched cap. ‘But you may feel differently soon enough.’

John frowned. He was well and truly flummoxed.

He could still not understand why she, of all people, should be sorry, and this seemed to dampen his theory that he had been called here for a scolding and a sentence of expulsion from the Hale home.

Mrs Hale sucked in her breath and attempted to steady herself, her trembling hand resting on the open page of her Bible, a particular passage that had come to her as she had prayed for guidance on how to proceed with this fragile yet fundamental phase of her plan. 

‘Mr Thornton, I have not called you here this evening to indulge in polite conversation, you must surely know that,’ she started, her words stumbling over each other as she plucked at the cuffs of her housecoat. ‘You are a busy man, the hour is late, you are in my bedchamber. All of these factors along with the abrupt nature of my note tonight must surely indicate that the purpose of this interview is anything but ordinary.’

John nodded in agreement, bracing himself for what was to come, even if, for the life of him, he could not work out what that was.

Wrapping her arms around her elbows, Mrs Hale confessed with a woeful whisper: ‘The truth is, I am...unwell,’ the last word barely audible as it floated into the air like a wisp of vile smoke.

John dropped his gaze to the floor in deference. ‘Yes, I was aware,’ he admitted soberly, somewhat thrown that she should have mentioned her health to him at all. ‘I am deeply sorry, truly I am,’ he said, lamely offering his useless condolences. ‘If there is anything I may do, then I am at your disposal and that of your family, both now and…after.’

John grimaced. Good grief! – why was he such a blundering, blithering buffoon whenever he was in this house? Was it possible that Hale women possessed a bewitching ability to perform a charm that shattered the lucidity of their victims? A hex that cast a spell over Thornton men, rendering them utterly incompetent and inadequate idiots?

It would seem so.

But any frustration John felt was soon overridden by his sense of concern for Mrs Hale and her family. It was a sorry business indeed! John knew all too well what it was like to lose a parent before their time. For many years, John had resented his father with an intense bile that had taken root inside him like the tubers of a diseased tree, corrupting him from within. He still often found himself overwhelmed by an entrenched hatred for the man who had deserted him and left his son with crippling debts and a devastated future.

Nevertheless, now, many years later, he found that in the place of his bitterness, the bud of empathy was blossoming in his matured heart, and John could now appreciate the fear that his father must have wrestled with to commit such a hopeless act. Hell! – what a lonely prison that must have been for the man John had looked up to and loved so very much. It showed that no matter what mask of courage people might wear to fool the outside world, on the inside, they could be drowning in a sea of sorrow, until finally, they could struggle no more, and giving up the fight, they simply sunk below the surface and perished. 

How John wished his father had confided in him. He could have tried to save him. But then again, some people could not be saved.

This was a revelation that had started to bloom not long after John had met Margaret. Even although they had rarely talked of his father, except for in his dreams, John instinctively knew what she would say, and he trusted that her darling heart would be full of sympathy for the wretched man.

Oh, Margaret! Sweet, sweet Margaret.

John could not deny it, her gentleness had softened him, and through her compassion, the sunlight of her nature had slowly seeped through the cracks of his splintered soul and gradually begun to heal his old wounds. If only she would stay with him, John thought sadly, then, only then, could he ever hope to become whole once more, all the scars that life had given him mended by Margaret and her restoring love. But no, she would go away, and he would be left more broken than ever in the wake of that wonderful woman who he would never call “wife.”

Of course, John knew that Mrs Hale was not cut from the same cloth as George Thornton, it was a completely different situation. But all the same, John could not imagine the turmoil that went through a person’s mind as they battled to come to terms with the knowledge of their impending demise, whether that be at the hand of sickness or…well, by their own hand.

Death is death, no matter who pulls the trigger.

Mrs Hale’s eyelids fluttered as she blinked back the tears that soaked her cheeks. She was not sure if she felt comforted or slighted that Mr Thornton should know of her condition. But no matter, her sense of discretion may have been precarious, but she supposed his discernment made matters easier moving forward with this tricky conversation that was currently not progressing as smoothly as she had envisaged.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her breathing laboured as she tried to compose herself, her hand creeping towards her smelling salts, just in case she felt a fainting fit come over her. ‘Well, you may be aware of my declining health, but what you may not know is that over the past few days, my time and attention has been much occupied…with _you_ ,’ she finished pointedly, peering at him from beneath her long eyelashes.

John leaned forward involuntarily, his eyes widening into mesmerising discs.

‘Mr Thornton, I am not what is known as a self-confident woman. I am generally quiet and diffident, having been brought up to be genial in everything I say and do. I have not been bred for indulging in plain talking,’ Mrs Hale babbled, biting her lip apprehensively. ‘However, sometimes life requires us to be bold and daring, to challenge the limitations of our characters in order to achieve a greater end and do the right thing. Do you not agree?’

‘I do,’ John acquiesced most firmly. 

Mrs Hale breathed a sigh of relief, the night so frigid that her breath rose into the air as a misty vapour. ‘Good. Well, that is why I need to beg your pardon and solicit your patience.’

Sensing her simmering anxiety, John wished to offer the ailing woman any semblance of peace that he could. ‘I can assure you, Mrs Hale, that I prefer straight-talking. I am a northern man and here in Milton, we do not mince our words, so you do not need to be uneasy on my account. Besides, I have had an atrociously taxing day, several days in fact, if not weeks and months,’ he groaned, rubbing his brow jadedly. ‘So, I am in no mood for idle chatter, meaning that I would much rather cut to the gist of whatever it is you have bid me here to discuss.’

Mrs Hale reached out to pat his hand and John suddenly felt overpowered by her kindness. He was just grateful that he was sitting down, or else he was afraid that his knees might buckle under the intensity of emotion that coursed through his veins.

‘I appreciate that, young man, really, I do,’ she acknowledged, her eyes searching his own. Hmm, yes, she could see it, the beauty that Margaret had discovered buried deep in this man’s heart. For you see, the eyes were a window to the soul, and Mrs Hale could tell that Mr Thornton’s was as good as gold.

Pulling herself up into a more dignified position, Mrs Hale sought to muster all her dwindling vigour, since this was no time to dawdle. ‘I have some things that I wish to say to you tonight, things that are perhaps personal, matters that you as a private man ─ and I believe you are a private man ─ may not feel comfortable discussing with me,’ she proclaimed, rushing ahead, concerned that if she did not, she would come to a grinding halt, and much like a carriage wheel stuck in the mud, Mrs Hale would not be able to drive forwards, no matter how hard she pushed.

‘For all your candour, Mr Thornton, you may consider my frankness a step too far. Now, you have every right to protest and to get up and leave,’ Mrs Hale allowed, her gaze swooping to the door. ‘However, I request clemency and tolerance for my poor manners, my intrusiveness. I will apply to your patience and appeal to you to persevere in your pardon of my insolence. I know it is not the done thing and believe me, such tactless conduct does not make me comfortable,’ she laughed uneasily, her skittish nerves getting the better of her.

John smiled a very small and sympathetic smile. ‘I shall endeavour to have the patience of a saint,’ he promised benevolently, still stumped as to what the lady of the house could possibly have to reproach herself for.

‘A saint?’ she resounded. ‘My-my, that is patient indeed,’ she joked, thankful for his forbearance. As she looked at him, Mrs Hale remarked that Mr Thornton was not half so fierce as people described him. To be sure, he had a stern set to his strong jaw, a rather stony and sombre mould sculpting his handsome face. Yet, in spite of this, underneath that guise of severity, she had a feeling that he was an extremely gentle sort of man, and it was this realisation which gave Mrs Hale the necessary courage of conviction she needed to soldier on.

‘I mention my illness because it may not excuse my inquisitiveness, but I hope it shall at least explain it. I am being forthright because I tire easily and find my faculties fail me, so I do not have the leisure to skirt around subjects of concern. But also, I…I have some affairs that I wish to settle…that I need to resolve before my time runs out,’ she hiccupped, a ball of grief clogging her gullet.

‘That is why I have not felt able to allow matters to develop naturally and gradually, you see. That is why I feel the need to…what is it they say?...to take the bull by the horns. Do you understand?’ she checked, anxious that he should follow her, knowing all too well that she was gabbling on like a fool.

‘I think that I do,’ he reassured her, although in truth, John was feeling more than a little lost, his typically canny intellect of no value here. 

Did Mrs Hale not know how a ticking-off was supposed to go? Perhaps not, for the woman was as meek and mild as a mouse. All the same, John was not about to remind her that he was the one in the defendant’s box, not her.

‘Hmm, good, good,’ she nodded. ‘The things I wish to say to you may be confidential, intimate to your own mind and heart. But they are for your own benefit, as well as that of another’s…somebody who matters more to me than life itself,’ she explained, her head ducked low in case she should waver in the event that he gave her a look, any look that expressed his displeasure at this extraordinary conversation.

But this was no time to be a scaredy-cat, not when her daughter’s happiness was at risk. Slowly raising her eyes to meet his, her shaky pitch hardly audible, Mrs Hale affixed: ‘Somebody who, I think, perhaps also matters a great deal to _you_.’

John’s breath caught in his throat. But he did not utter a word, for he had lost the ability to breathe, his silken cravat so tight that his Adam’s apple compressed against his windpipe.

Mrs Hale studied him for some time, her eyes searching his own, trying to read him like a book. Yes ─ _there_! She felt sure that she could detect a flicker of hope gleaming back at her from behind those cobalt orbs.

‘May I continue?’ she asked warily.

As his fingers moved to loosen the knot of his navy-blue necktie, John replied with a gravelly tenor: ‘I think that you must.’

Mrs Hale exhaled.

‘As you can imagine, lately I have been detained, restricted to my bed, my frailty impeding both my mobility and my mind,’ Mrs Hale explained, gesturing to her confined state. ‘However, I have not been idle,’ she added, a tinge of pride in her tone. ‘No, I have found that over the past few days, my thoughts have been wandering to my daughter,’ Mrs Hale continued, sensing Mr Thornton rocking forwards in his seat with poorly disguised interest.

‘I thought about Margaret. Her past, her present, and her future. I thought about what will become of her once I am gone,’ Mrs Hale sustained, pretending to inspect a fleck of dust in the crook of her arm, just so she could hide the anguish that ached in her heart.

‘I thought about her life and what she would want, what she would need, what she would deserve,’ the mother resumed, keen that he should follow the rationality of her reasoning, the logic that had led a parson’s wife and a mill master, two relative strangers, to be sitting alone, side-by-side in a bedroom late at night.

John found himself nodding sagely, for there was nothing that mattered more to him than seeing Margaret settled in a life that gifted her all she had ever dreamed of.

‘I want so much for her to be happy; you see,’ Mrs Hale asserted, her fingers absently caressing her stomach, which was concealed beneath a pile of blankets, her memory drifting back to days long ago when a baby girl had grown in her womb. ‘Parents, they talk of distinction and fortune for their progeny, but really, all we want is for them to know joy and contentment. I know that is what I want for my children, more than anything,’ she said sadly.

John bristled as he thought of his own mother and her protective yearning to secure his happiness. He understood deep down that even although her methods had been misguided to say the least, her motivations had been selfless, nonetheless. But as he listened to Mrs Hale, John’s attention was filched, and he tilted his head. Had she said “ _children_?” Surely that was a mistake, a slip of the tongue, but it mattered not, he understood her meaning all the same.

‘And it made me consider what would make Margaret happy…of…of who would make her happy,’ Mrs Hale persisted hesitantly, knowing all too well that she was approaching the heart of the matter, the culmination of many days’ worth of concern and care for her beloved daughter.

John sensed his throat prickle with a blistering thirst, the floor of his mouth as dry as the desert sands. He knew what was coming. It made sense now. Mrs Hale had asked him here not to rebuke him, but to inform him that Margaret intended to marry another, that she was betrothed to a more suitable gentleman, that his treasured girl would in fact be the bride of none other than Henry lousy Lennox.

Of course, Mrs Hale was just trying to break it to him gently, and John did not know if he was more angry or appreciative of her infernal humanity. Dash the Hales! It would be so much easier to hate them if they were a rotten bunch of reprobates just like everyone else. But the pious lot would insist on being damned pure in their unselfishness, making it impossible for John to reproach them.

John felt his heart scream out in protest as he readied himself to hear Margaret’s name coupled with another man’s. A vision flitted through his tortured mind of her adorned in white, signing her name as Margaret Lennox, her proud husband standing close by her side, grinning from cheek-to-cheek at finding himself the luckiest rake alive, married to the most precious woman who had ever graced this miserable earth.

John groaned, feeling as if he had been kicked in the groin and gut all at the same time. Gripping the arm of his chair, he fought to quash the nausea that swelled within and threatened to overwhelm him, finally pushing him off this precipice, hurtling him into an abyss of solitude and insanity.

Flexing his whitening knuckles, John could not take the suspense of it any longer. It was time the dagger hanging over his head fell and finished the job. At last, he found himself mumbling: ‘And whom did you settle upon?’

But much to his surprise, Mrs Hale resumed her ruminating with a jolly tone, one that did not suggest that she was about to crush his hopes like an insect underfoot. Well, either that, or she was utterly heartless. ‘That is an excellent question. See, Mr Thornton, you really do like getting straight to the point,’ she ribbed, trying to alter that tense expression that tautened his face. Actually, his whole body seemed rigid, and she had the oddest impression that he was holding his breath.

‘Well, while I was thinking about what sort of gentleman Margaret ought to marry, I found that a certain man came to mind, a very particular man,’ she provoked, unable to resist the tease. ‘I was confused at first, in fact, I will confess that I was downright dismayed. I tried to dispel him. To be honest, I had hardly thought about him before, he was irrelevant to me, I am ashamed to say. But…well, he is stubborn, this man, and he refused to budge. Try as I might, whenever I pictured my daughter, whether it was as a bride, a wife, a mother, he was there, determined to remain by her side, loyal and loving to the last.’

John gritted his teeth. Hell’s bells! – there was no need to kick a man while he was down! Surely Mrs Hale knew that praising Lennox to the sky would only serve to rub salt in John’s wound of unrequited love. Again, it left him wondering whether the ailing lady was as harmless as she seemed. Perhaps behind that bland and benevolent veneer skulked a wicked old witch after all.

However, Mrs Hale had not noticed her companion’s sulking and scowling, so she prattled on, none the wiser. ‘So, with such a man trapped in my mind, I had no choice but to think about him and to consider him most carefully,’ she mused. ‘I thought about the sort of man that my Margaret would desire, the sort of man whom she would respect, trust, and be willing to bind herself to, for, after all, marriage is a sacred bond, one not to be entered into lightly.’

‘I agree,’ John concurred distractedly, his arms folded over his chest as he glowered, comprehending that he himself would never be tying the knot.

John’s fevered mind skimmed over his woefully limited catalogue of options, wondering if he could devise a credible plan that would allow him to speak with Margaret and to implore her to reconsider his proposal. Then again, convincing Margaret was one thing, but he had her parents to win over, and judging by the way she nattered on, the mother seemed as keen as mustard about that lemming of a lawyer.

Damn it! – the whole sorry mess was doomed to failure.

‘Margaret does not care for wealth or social position; they are immaterial to her,’ Mrs Hale enlightened, speculating as to why Mr Thornton was glaring at the rug as if it had grievously offended him. ‘I knew that if my daughter were ever to marry, it would not be a match founded on advantageous connections of affluence or status, no, it would be because she was in love. Margaret would only ever give her hand and heart to a man who she considered worthy.’

John thought about this. ‘Does such a man even exist?’ he deliberated, the cogs of his incisive mind turning. ‘Can any man ever truly be worthy of winning her heart?’ he asked cynically, seriously doubting that a libertine like Lennox deserved such an angel.

Mrs Hale sniggered. ‘Your misgivings are both wise and reassuring. But you are correct, Mr Thornton, such men are rare, but they do exist. If one looks very hard indeed, one can often find what they are looking for in the most unlikely of places,’ she said shrewdly.

‘This realisation made me consider what such a man would look like. One who is honourable, dependable, honest, principled, hardworking, compassionate, and faithful both in his character and in his conduct.’

‘That is some list!’ John muttered under his breath, a tad peevishly.

‘As my mind formed a picture of this man, somebody appeared,’ Mrs Hale carried on, her excitement mounting as she edged closer and closer to her revelation. ‘A Milton man, no less,’ she tallied casually, eager to gauge his reaction.

John’s head bolted up.

Eh?! _Milton_?

This was a turn up for the books! Either that, or his ears were stuffed to the gunnels with wax, and he was hearing things.

John knitted his brow. ‘Do I know him?’

Who in God’s name did the Hales know in Milton? Oh, Lord save him! Not young Mr Whitehall?! Please, anyone but him!

Mrs Hale looked at John warmly, her heart overflowing with fondness for this unassuming boy.

Yes, she was certain. He was it. He was the right man for Margaret.

It was time for the truth to come out.

Taking his hands in her own, she shook them gently.

‘That man, Mr Thornton, was, is… _you_.’

John had not previously noticed, but he was still gripping onto the arms of his seat, and as Mrs Hale uttered those words, his hand tightened and slipped, affecting the wood to crack under the force of his grasp, snapping one armrest like a twig.

The silence that followed seemed to stretch on forever.

John’s eyes remained wide, an unwavering expression of shock writ across his pale face as he stared straight through Mrs Hale.

The pair sat in a hallowed hush for several minutes, waiting for the colour to return to John’s cheeks. When at last, Mrs Hale was certain that her guest had recovered enough of his self-possession, she decided that the time had come for all misunderstandings to be cleared up once and for all. Without stopping to query the suitability of her question, Mrs Hale allowed it to spontaneously tumble from her mouth.

‘Mr Thornton…do you love my daughter?’

In a fraction of a second, the answer that slipped from John’s lips was sacred in both its simplicity and its unadulterated sincerity.

‘ _Yes_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the first part. Bear with me, I know that it has a slow start, which I know is not much fun, but I felt inherently that this conversation would be clunky, as it is not natural for either John or Mrs Hale given their private and restrained personalities. I can imagine she would be mortified, so, as nice as it would be just to sail straight to the point, I just don’t think she would do that. If you have any thoughts about what Mrs Hale or John should say to each other in part 2, then let me know. You never know, they might end up in the story.


	27. NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS: PART 2 OF 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I hope everyone is keeping well. I hope you liked the last chapter, there wasn’t a lot of feedback on it, but hopefully you enjoyed it all the same. I think if it were to be given a blurb, then it would be: “The one where John comes up with as many rude words beginning with the letter L as possible to insult Lennox.”
> 
> Anyway, me being me, I’ve written too much, so decided to make this a 3-part chapter instead. Now, no grumping, because a lot of hard work has gone into writing this over the past few days. I’ll post part 3 tomorrow. It’s written, I just need to tweak a bit.
> 
> In connection to a social media campaign I’m doing with some other writers, as much as all positive comments are super appreciated, we are encouraging people not to write something along the lines of: “Great chapter, post the next one soon,” or, “hurry up with the next update.” Let’s try and work together to give writers a bit more appreciation for their hard work and to encourage readers to pause and savour each chapter as it comes. 
> 
> Lastly, a friend of mine says that she likes to play a drinking game when she is reading my stories. She says she takes a shot every time I use alliteration and that she is always hammered by the end of the first paragraph – ouch! But fair enough! So, if you’re bored this Valentines’ weekend and fancy a silly game, then by all means, read and drink up!

CHAPTER 27:

NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS

PART 2 OF 3

Both man and woman present were knocked for six, rendered speechless by the directness of John’s answer, neither of them having suspected for a moment that it would have been offered with such unbridled bluntness.

It was abrupt, it was discourteous, it was shameless.

But by God, it was heartfelt!

John himself was afforded little time to consider the cause of his hasty guilelessness, but on reflection, he knew exactly why he had been so utterly uncompromising in the integrity of his confession.

It was terribly simple really.

In normal circumstances, John was a staunchly private man, one who rarely gave way to his feelings, even to himself, let alone indulging in senseless displays of emotion. In all his thirty years, he had seldom discussed his frame of mind with others, and if he ever had, it had only ever fallen on his own mother’s ears. He found such ruminations pointless and somewhat pathetic, believing that they held no purpose, no means of promoting his personal or professional concerns. Therefore, to find himself acknowledging the most sacred desires of his heart to Margaret’s mother of all people, well, it was unexpected to say the least. 

All the same, his passionate behaviour over recent days, weeks and months had taken him by surprise, leaving John wondering whether his once durable and reserved sense of self-restraint had been broken beyond repair the moment he had first laid eyes on Miss Margaret Hale. Nevertheless, tonight, he knew the cause of his earnestness. In truth, John was exhausted. He was beset by a scourge of physical and psychological stresses that attacked him from every side, and his heart harboured too heavy a burden for him to carry alone any longer.

So, this evening, he had no more strength left to fight, and on hearing Mrs Hale’s uncompromising question, John had crumbled and confessed without so much as a shred of self-control. Perhaps if this had been three days ago, things would have been different. John would most likely have held firm to his semblance of formality, the stoic silence he was well known for, that dignity that was fostered by self-denial and self-discipline, two characteristics that had been his constant companions for many years. However, after all the chaos that had transpired over the past seventy-two hours, John found that he could no longer struggle through this wilderness of disillusionment and wretchedness, now refusing to participate in this sham in which he had to pretend that all was well. 

But most importantly of all, John would _not_ be made to feel guilty about his feelings for Margaret. No, he knew that he had wronged her, he knew that he had proved himself unworthy, yet despite the trail of mistakes that lay strewn behind him in his wake, John’s intentions towards her remained pure. He would _not_ deny his respect and regard, he would _not_ be ashamed of his affection for that glorious angel. So, it was for that reason above all else that John had affirmed his love for Margaret so freely to her mother. In short, it was a fortuitous combination of fatigue and fidelity which unravelled the mill master’s reticence this night.

As she listened to his declaration, Mrs Hale felt a great weight lift from her shoulders, offering the poorly woman some sorely needed peace. It was wonderful to finally be certain of the truth, and now, the path ahead of her appeared seamlessly straightforward, with no bumps to impede her journey, one that had felt endless until this pivotal point, this decisive fork in the road.

With renewed faith, she hummed: ‘I thought as much.’

John, who had been staring at the fractured arm of the chair with a brooding mope, suddenly snapped back into life and gazed at her in bewilderment.

So, she knew?

But John still had many questions left unanswered, because he felt none the wiser in understanding the inexplicable situation that he now found himself in, seeing as Mrs Hale’s conduct, enquiries and reactions were certainly not what he had been expecting when he had walked into this house tonight.

More to the point, where the blazes was Margaret anyway?!

Sensing his bafflement, Mrs Hale chuckled knowingly. ‘Oh! I can assure you, young man, when you are confined to a sickbed day after day, with only four walls to look at…well, your mind becomes bored stiff and in its desperation for diversion, it wanders to the most surprising of places and persons. And three days ago, ─ goodness, was it only three days?’ she mused with astonishment. ‘If this little saga had been a novel, then it would have gone on forever,’ she quipped.

John could not help but let out his own snort of amused agreement.

‘At any rate, sitting here for the past three days, I have been reflecting. I have thought a great deal about my dear daughter, and, in turn, I have thought about _you_ ,’ she said, her hand fluttering towards him as if to signify that John really was the living, breathing embodiment of the person who had been monopolising her thoughts of late. To be sure, after all the troublesome to-do that had unfolded, Mrs Hale was herself surprised to find Mr Thornton actually sitting before her in the flesh.

Swallowing thickly, John found that his throat was constricted, as if a viper had him in its grasp. ‘I do not understand,’ he rasped at last.

‘Nor did I,’ Mrs Hale conceded warmly.

However, as she regarded her guest, Mrs Hale spied the shadow of insecurity flit across his tense face, and she realised that far from being relieved by her revelation, he was, if anything, more muddled than ever. Watching him carefully, she sensed that the cogs of his well-oiled mind were turning frantically, wondering what she knew, who had told her, how long she had known for, and why she was now informing him of it. 

Oh dear! The poor pet must have been scared silly!

It seemed that despite his undeniable intelligence, Mr Thornton’s inherent lack of self-worth would require the mother to take him by the hand and guide him through this distorted and disorientating maze of misunderstandings, until, at last, he came out the other side, his course clear, everything once again uninhibited by the darkness of errors, the web of lies spun by sorrow and spite.

‘I assure you, Mr Thornton, I too have been baffled by this whole situation,’ she reassured him, keen that he should not feel isolated in his incomprehension. ‘Nevertheless, with patience and persistence, I have slowly but surely come to understand, and, I hope after our little conversation, so shall you. I have been solving a puzzle, you see, and would very much like to share my findings with you,’ Mrs Hale invited.

John nodded, but all the same, his brow still wrinkled in confusion.

‘I still do not understand,’ the master repeated. ‘You think _me_ worthy of your daughter?’

Mrs Hale felt her heart cry as she heard the small and self-deprecating lilt to his baritone tenor.

‘ _I do_ ,’ she consented confidently. ‘And so does Margaret.’

John scoffed, a great deal louder and more sneeringly than he had intended. ‘No she does not!’ he disputed, most adamantly indeed, his arms folding across his chest in that way they did when he felt defensive, a tactic designed to intimidate his enemies and keep them at bay.

Mrs Hale was taken aback by the force of his conviction. Not being accustomed to such commanding mannerisms, she flinched in response, her bottom rising a full three inches into the air. ‘Why do you say that?’ she queried.

John began to rake his fingers through his hair in agitation, unsure of where to start and even less certain of how much to give away. He did not want to conceal anything from Mrs Hale, he hated deceit, but at the same time, he also did not wish to abuse Margaret’s trust and disclose matters that she would rather remain confidential.

‘I do not know how much you are aware of, Mrs Hale, but I can verify most emphatically that your daughter thinks very little of me,’ John stated pessimistically, a downcast glower darkening his features. ‘But I _will not_ relinquish my feelings for her, if that is what you want,’ he asserted, his eyes suddenly sparkling with fervour. ‘And I _will not_ make her wed me to suit propriety. No, I want to marry Miss Hale, very much so, but I will not make her my unwilling bride,’ John rebelled, defiance strumming the chords of his deep timbre.

Mrs Hale gazed at the man before her. He looked so defeated as he cast his eyes to the floor, his shoulders slumped, his emotions trampled, his spirits drained. Gentle soul that she was, Mrs Hale could not bear to see him so wounded. Leaning forward, the mother tenderly rested her small hand atop his much larger one and took a deep breath.

‘She loves you.’

Years later, whenever John thought back on that moment, he could swear that for a second, just a second mind, his heart stopped.

All John could ask with a gravelly croak was a rather undignified: ‘What?’

Mrs Hale smiled. ‘Margaret loves you,’ she reiterated plainly.

As fast as a flash of lightening, and with just as much vigour, John abruptly stood, his chair scraping across the floor, and he started marching around the room in the most alarming distress.

‘It is not true!’ John agonised; his jaw taut. ‘I wish it were true! You have no idea how much I wish it.’ God! – he was suffocating in here, he needed to get out, but he could not leave.

‘I can assure you that she does!’ Mrs Hale promised, her pitch shrill, anxious for him to heed the honesty of her words. ‘I would have allowed Margaret to tell you of all this herself, I wish she could have, it is her right after all. But I did not trust that the two of you would not let your insufferable stubbornness and shyness get in the way!’ she explained, her fretful eyes following him as he stalked around the room, his long strides taking him back and forth between the closed door and the mantel. If he went on like this for much longer, then he would wear a hole in her rug.

‘I feared that you would both only have created more misunderstandings for yourselves. I worried that it would only have served to prolong your separation and your suffering. I thought it best to speak to you directly at first, Mr Thornton, to ascertain for certain the nature of your relationship with my daught ─’

‘There is no relationship!’ John cut in gruffly, his fist clenching by his side in aggravation, the glow of the fire throwing menacing shadows across his wandering form.

John was going mad. What was this nonsense that Mrs Hale was jabbering on about? These falsehoods that only sought to torment him. Was she stupid? Or misinformed? Or facetious? He did not know what was worse, but whatever she was, it was damned tortuous!

Mrs Hale clutched at her Bible with trembling hands, feeling as jittery as a plate of jelly, but she refused to give in to her timidity, not now that Mr Thornton was finally here and uncovering the truth. No, she could not give way to spinelessness, this was no time to be faint hearted, not when she owed it to Margaret to be brave.

Taking a deep breath, Mrs Hale forged ahead. ‘All the same, I wanted to be sure. I appreciate that none of this is customary and is probably dreadfully difficult for you. I am most sorry for it, Mr Thornton!’ she apologised, troubled by his evident anguish. ‘Believe me, if my mother had told my beau on my behalf that I loved him, then I would have been livid. But the two of you left me with no choice. I did not want to send you to Margaret if I too had misunderstood your intentions as she herself had. I could not stand for her to be left without hope yet again. I _would not_ see her broken-hearted, to have her cry over you anymore.’

John stopped abruptly in his tracks and turned as pale as milk. ‘ _Cry_?’ he spluttered.

Had Margaret been crying? Over _him_?

‘Did I make her cry?’ he asked with a shudder, unable to stomach such a disturbing thought.

Perceiving his anxiety, Mrs Hale judged it best to dispense with the riddles and to clarify matters for the poor mill master, the dear lamb looking hopelessly lost, astray in a strange bedroom, with a strange woman, being told strange proclamations. ‘Perhaps I had better explain everything from the beginning,’ she suggested. ‘I have disclosed all of this to Margaret, so it is only fair that you are equally informed,’ Mrs Hale recommended, motioning for her visitor to return to his chair so that they might continue the conversation in a more civilised fashion.

At length, John nodded, and he took a pew, although, this time, he sat right on the edge, tilting forward so far that the sharp corner of the seat stabbed his backside.

‘As I was saying,’ Mrs Hale resumed, forcing herself to remain calm. ‘I was contemplating what Margaret’s future would be like and what sort of man would make her happy,’ she restated. ‘Then, out of nowhere, you came to mind. I was perplexed at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I gathered that I had been aware of something developing between you and my daughter for some time. I had noticed the way you were with each other. Small things, things that I can hardly describe, they seem so inconsequential when I say them out loud. Just…the way you looked at each other. The way you talked to each other. The way you argued. The way you both lit up when the other was around.’ Mrs Hale knew that she was prattling, but at least she was getting it all out, which, for a woman who would not usually say boo to a goose, was quite an achievement.

John compressed his lips into a thin line of displeasure. ‘That was just me,’ he claimed, mortified to think that his fascination with Margaret, his fondness for her had been so obvious for all to see. He felt like some droll exhibit on display at the zoo. Next thing he knew, Mrs Hale would be selling tickets, and all of Milton would flock to see the Master of Marlborough Mills make a fool of himself in this side-splitting, rib-tickling spectacle of the laughable twit trying to woo the pretty princess.

‘ _I_ was the one interested in getting to know _her_. I was the one who found satisfaction in her company. I was the one who wished to progress our association from being more than acquaintances. Believe me, the pleasure was all mine, the infatuation was, as I have since learned, completely one-sided,’ he griped, his teeth gnawing in frustration at being made to look as foolish as a court jester.

‘No, I can assure you, she felt the same way,’ Mrs Hale guaranteed.

John grumbled. He was beginning to think this woman was as nutty as a fruitcake. No wonder that dragon Dixon had been so quick to show him upstairs, she knew what fate awaited her least favoured visitor in this den of lunacy.

Touché, Dixon!

Nonetheless, Mrs Hale was not going to let Mr Thornton waylay her with his blinkered self-doubt, so she decided to jostle things along a bit. ‘At any rate, as I was thinking, I began to query a few pieces of my puzzle which did not quite fit. For one, I wondered why it had been so long since you had come here. I tried to guess why you had suspended your lessons with my husband,’ she mused.

John shifted uncomfortably in the chair. ‘I have been busy,’ he mumbled guiltily.

‘Humbug!’ Mrs Hale rebuked, in no frame of mind to be fed fibs, her eyes flashing with irritation. ‘As I was saying, I sought to decipher why you had stopped coming to the house without notice or explanation. I also tried to understand why my Margaret had suddenly become so miserable, so terribly sad.’

‘She has been sad?!’ John fretted, lurching forwards, his shaky pitch betraying his worry, and, if one listened carefully, just a pinch of hope thrown in there too.

‘She has indeed,’ Mrs Hale verified, gratified by his palpable alarm, for all women are inherently pleased when they find that a man is anxious for her welfare, or in this case, concerned on behalf of a loved one. ‘And I now know why, but I shall come to that,’ she promised, determined that this chat would not only prove illuminating, but would also be conducted logically.

‘So, in light of these mystifying uncertainties and my own accumulating theories, I resolved that I had no option but to bring the two of you together. So, I decided to invite you to tea. Well, I concluded that Margaret should visit you and unwittingly tempt you to tea, that seemed like the most appealing nudge to get you here. I knew that you would not be able to resist such an attractive offer. I had to get you both in the same room, you must understand, so that I could observe you together,’ she confessed, her eyes darting to take in his shocked expression.

Mrs Hale blushed and dropped her gaze diffidently to the Bible on her lap, so that she could distract herself by smoothing out the creased corners, her cheeks flushed as she felt his disapproval burning into her, branding her as a meddlesome mother.

‘Oh! I know, it was wrong of me!’ she blustered, not accustomed to being scolded. ‘Have no fear, Mr Thornton, Margaret has already told me off! However, as I believe I have explained, _young man_ , I did not have the luxury of time. I could hardly wait for the two of you to resolve your misunderstandings on your own now, could I? We may have been here until the rapture!’ she puffed, trying to justify herself.

However, much to her surprise, Mr Thornton did not look offended, but rather, intrigued, even a smidgen impressed.

‘That is not what I was thinking,’ he replied, his tone lightsome. ‘I was thinking that you are not as doddery as you seem, madam,’ he added, giving her a discerning smile. Blimey! His mother would be gobsmacked to discover that Mrs Hale was no half-baked ninny after all.

Mrs Hale sighed in relief. ‘Indeed, I am not, good sir,’ she granted with a conspiratorial titter. Still, this was no time to dilly-dally, because as she glanced at her clock, Mrs Hale noted that she had no more than thirty-four minutes left until her daughter was due home. Oh dear! – she had better look sharp!

‘Now then,’ she continued swiftly. ‘What I saw on that night was two people very much in love with each other.’

John’s good humour soon wilted, and his grin sunk into a grimace. ‘It is _not true_ ; she _does not_ love me!’ he snapped, flopping back in his chair like a flounder.

‘Oh! Fiddlesticks! None of that now! I do not have time for such poppycock!’ Mrs Hale nipped crossly; her chin raised in haughty defiance. As John sat back and allowed himself to be reprimanded, he suddenly had a sense of being rebuked by an older version of Margaret, and the vision both alarmed and amused him in equal measure.

Mrs Hale pulled her shawl further around her shoulders to shield them from the frosty breeze that blew in from beneath the door. Really! – she had no idea how people could survive in this arctic climate without losing their fingers and toes. ‘I have already been through all this hogwash with Margaret,’ she groused. ‘I am not prepared to go through it again. Her refusal to believe that you care for her was exhaust ─’

‘She thinks I do not care for her?!’ John exclaimed, unable to contain his angst.

‘Well of course she does!’ Mrs Hale carped. ‘After the way you’ve behaved, she thinks you despise her!’ Mrs Hale answered spitefully, partially out of impatience for all his interrupting, and partially to chide him for his poor treatment of Margaret in making her believe he was indifferent to her.

‘Where is she? Where is Mar ─ Miss Hale?’ John asked abruptly, desperate to see her for a list of reasons that stretched from here to the moon and back. ‘I need to apologise for my conduct without delay!’ he insisted, his blood pumping with a rekindled oomph.

‘You may see her only if and when I deem it appropriate,’ Mrs Hale retorted brusquely.

However, spying his face, which was so flat that it reminded her of one of Dixon’s deflated puff-pastries, she soon felt pity overcome her maternal indignation. ‘Come now, Mr Thornton, do not look so glum, it is not as bad as all that. It is not too late to set things right, you will see,’ she bolstered. ‘Now, the sooner you let me finish my story, the sooner I can help you start the next unwritten chapter, and we can put this whole sorry mess to bed.’ At this, Mrs Hale reddened at her unfortunate phrasing, for the connotations that arose from suggesting Mr Thornton and Margaret put anything to bed was most improper indeed.

Nevertheless, thankfully, the man was too distracted by his despondency to notice her faux pas. ‘Now then, where was I? I do wish you would not interrupt…Oh, yes! ─ I saw two people very much in love. I mean, you with those flowers. Margaret baking those biscuits, she does not even like ginger!’

‘I know! She prefers cake, I did think that odd,’ John chimed in, although, he would certainly not be divulging when and where Margaret had told him she favoured cake.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Hale answered vaguely, baffled by the embarrassed tint that coloured Mr Thornton’s ears. After all, what could be more innocent than cake? ‘In any case, there was more. You should have seen her before you came, what a nervous nelly. I think she must have checked herself in the mirror a dozen times or more,’ Mrs Hale giggled.

A slight smile curled the corner of John’s lips. ‘Did she really?’ he asked hopefully, trying not to sound overly eager. ‘She was nervous? To see _me_?’

‘As nervous as a kitten!’ Mrs Hale smirked. ‘I think Margaret dearest was worried she would not look her best.’

At this titbit of gossip, John’s mouth fell open. ‘She looked bea ─,’ he blurted out involuntarily, but he soon halted his tongue, clipping it between his teeth, wincing as he bit the same spot he had earlier. ‘Miss Hale looked very well,’ he amended, striving to sound more restrained in his reverence of the ravishing woman he found more alluring than he dared confess. ‘She always does,’ he mumbled into his palm as he scratched his sideburns.

‘I am glad you approved, I thought you would,’ Mrs Hale grinned like a Cheshire cat, delighted that her rouse had worked a treat. If there was one thing the mischievous mother enjoyed, it was lovingly and harmlessly poking fun at her friends and family. She did remind herself that Mr Thornton was technically neither of these things to her, but with any luck, he would be before the night was out. ‘She really did look enchanting! Margaret is so naturally pretty, quite beguiling.’

You can say that again, thought John, just grateful that he had remembered not to say it out loud.

‘Then there was you working yourself up into a right stew, all apprehensive about where she was, checking the door as often as you blinked. I must say, you are both most poor at disguising your fixation with each other. Margaret rushing to your side and tending to your hand with such care,’ she went on, noticing the way her guest peered at his bandaged hand, his eyebrows raised, wondering if there had been more to Margaret’s attentive nursing than he had previously realised. ‘Then there was you staring at her most unashamedly. Yes, sir, you _were_ staring,’ she repeated categorically after noticing the way John screwed up his face. ‘Of course, there was the two of you getting jealous.’

‘Jealous?’ John echoed. Oh boy! – what did Mrs Hale know? Was this woman sitting up here day after day staring into a bleedin’ crystal ball? But wait, had she said that the both of them had been jealous? That could not be right.

Mrs Hale dabbed the corner of her eye with her handkerchief, wiping away the tears that had formed while she had been chuckling at the young couple’s charming silliness. ‘Yes, Margaret was jealous of Anne Latimer. Well, she still is, I suppose.’

John’s jaw fell to the floor. ‘Anne Latimer?’ he scoffed. ‘Whatever for?!’

Mrs Hale watched him carefully, vigilant to discern any hint of whether the man had in fact had a dalliance with the lady in question. ‘My daughter is under the impression that you have formed an attachment to Miss Latimer. She thinks the two of you are courting and have an understanding.’

John was incredulous. ‘What?!’ his tenor as high as a kite. ‘Why would she think such an absurd thing?’

‘Because she saw you with her on the street yesterday. Miss Latimer was holding your arm,’ Mrs Hale described matter-of-factly. ‘And by all accounts, she gave Margaret a most self-satisfied look as she tightened her grip of you, quite possessive, it seems. Surely you must have noticed.’ Mrs Hale was not sure whether or not Mr Thornton was a petticoat-pincher, a phrase her father had used to describe the type of man who spreads himself around town, flagrantly toying with various women’s affections. She somehow doubted it, yet all the same, Mrs Hale found it hard to believe that Mr Thornton, a clever chap, had not discerned a pretty young petal latching onto him. But then again, some men were twits.

John’s morale flagged as he plummeted back in his chair, utterly dumbfounded by this report. ‘No-no-no! I was _just_ escorting her home. That was all,’ he contended most adamantly, his voice strangled. ‘I was approached by her and her father on my way back to the mill, and he asked if I could walk her to an appointment with my sister. I hardly felt I could decline, I had no polite excuse not to,’ he maintained, attempting to defend himself.

Oh, God! – was that why Margaret had run away from him on the street? Had she thought…oh heck! How could he have been so oblivious? What a damned fool!

Mrs Hale sniffed. ‘I thought as much. Well, appearances can be deceptive, you should know that, Mr Thornton,’ she derided, intentionally referencing his error over the letter he had seen in the study, but she would get to that soon enough. One issue at a time. 

‘The main detail is that it was an innocent misinterpretation that means nothing. However, you should know, Mr Thornton, that Margaret would…,’ Mrs Hale hesitated and considered how to word this. ‘She is not the sort of woman to turn a blind eye,’ she coughed.

John cocked his head.

Mrs Hale sighed. Goodness! – men really were as thick as a plank of wood at times.

‘She…some women are willing to make allowances, but she would not be that kind of wife. She would not get over something like that.’

Still, the face that stared back at her was as blank as an unblemished canvas.

Mrs Hale rearranged herself awkwardly and averted her eyes, choosing to focus on the slim wedding band that had sat on her finger for twenty-five years. ‘Sometimes a wife is willing to ignore her husband’s…indiscretions…his wandering eye…a husband who comes home late...who enjoys the company of other women,’ she wittered on quietly, caressing the circle of metal that glinted in the candlelight.

John suddenly grasped her meaning and blustered in disgust.

‘Mrs Hale!’ he huffed. ‘Are you speaking of infidelity? Well then, I can assure you that I am _not_ that sort of man! I have never…that is…I would never treat my wife in such a callous manner, _never_!’ John bit back indignantly. ‘Disloyalty is _not_ in my nature! I may have many faults, but I know one thing, _I am_ obstinate in my constancy! I would be a faithful husband, _always_!’

John could hardly believe his ears. The very idea of him flouting his wedding vows ─ it was preposterous! John reckoned that if he were ever lucky enough to wed Margaret, the problem would not be how frequently he strayed from her, but how frequently he stayed with her, because John would wish to constantly…well, he would wish to do certain things repeatedly and regularly with her…and to her ─

But he could not think of that now! Focus man, focus! It must have something to do with being in this part of the house, the proximity to Margaret's bedchamber, her personal living quarters, it was scambling John's mind. Oh help! What if her bedroom was close-by? Next door even? Oh heck! He had not thought of that. What if she could hear everything he was saying? No - no, surely not, calm yourself man. If she could hear all the quixotic jibberish that he was spouting, then Margaret being Margaret, would have stormed into the room by now and reprpimanded him in that magnificently high and mighty way of hers! 

Mrs Hale was comforted by Mr Thornton’s impassioned speech, if not a little startled by the extent of his outrage. However, she was not prepared to shy away from such an imperative topic, not if the mother would no longer be around to offer her daughter comfort and counsel during her marriage. ‘Well, I felt it needed to be mentioned. The ridiculous thing is that men, the very people who feel permitted to talk about such vulgar matters, never in fact discuss this particular problem. That is, fathers, brothers, and uncles, when they give their permission for a man to marry their female relative, they should mention such things, but they do not, and I think it most unfair! They are the ones who, after all, know of the power a man can wield, but little do they appreciate the suffering they can inflict!’ she sermonised.

The truth was that Maria Hale had been fortunate in her marriage, in that her husband had enduringly been the very model of devotion, if not always dependable in other areas of life. Nevertheless, she knew all too well the pain that adultery could elicit in a union, after having both an unfortunate mother and a sister who had been subjected to such conjugal cruelty at the hands of their spouses.

‘So, you see, despite the unsavoury nature of the matter, I felt I had to say it, because Margaret is far too sweet and unworldly a girl to realise that men can be so heartless, and it really would break her heart to know such a betrayal, such coldness. I tell you, Mr Thornton, when your sister marries, you ought to have the same conversation with her intended,’ Mrs Hale stressed.

John considered this. ‘I will,’ he said after a pause, for it was true, he had never contemplated this issue. On the other hand, if he thought for a moment that Fanny’s husband, (whatever poor sod was idiotic enough to take her on), was sniffing around skirts, then John would knock the scoundrel’s block off.

Nevertheless, after a few snorts of her smelling salts, Mrs Hale’s composure was soon restored, and she felt able to return to the matter at hand. ‘So, there is nothing between you and Miss Latimer?’ she checked.

‘No! Of course not!’ John protested. ‘I am distressed that Miss Hale should think such a thing. I only care for her. She…Miss Hale is the only woman I have ever had feelings for,’ he confessed coyly. 

‘That is reassuring to know. Now then, Henry Lennox,’ Mrs Hale continued, keen to move things along, because as she stole a sneaky peek at the clock, she estimated that she only had twenty-four minutes left.

John’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Does she like him?’ he interrogated.

‘No,’ came an uncomplicated answer.

‘But…’

‘The letter?’ Mrs Hale asked, deciding that it was time to bring Mr Thornton out from the darkness of his no doubt excruciating obliviousness and into the light.

John was confounded. ‘You know about the letter?’ Good grief! Was there anything this woman did not know?

‘I do,’ she admitted. Leaning in towards her guest, Mrs Hale used the most soothing voice she could muster. ‘Mr Thornton, I know what you believe, and I appreciate that the past few days must have been torture for you, imagining such a hopeless future in light of what you read. But I assure you from the bottom of my heart, you were, and are, utterly mistaken.’

For a fraction of a second, John felt a wave of hope swell in his soul, but then it crashed against the rocks of reality, and his confidence was dashed to smithereens once more.

John shook his head adamantly. ‘I do not think that is possible,’ he upheld, thinking back on the wording of the letter that still pierced him like a knife to the heart. ‘Have you read it?’

‘No, but I can also assume that you did not read the entire missive. Is that correct?’ she questioned, since in truth, Mrs Hale’s knowledge of the event was based on pure conjecture, given that neither Margaret nor Dixon knew that Mr Thornton had glimpsed the message. 

John frowned at this.

How could she possibly know that?

‘The pages, they were fanned out, were they not?’ she sought to establish. ‘So, you could not have read the whole thing, which means, sir, that you quite literally misread it.’

John’s eyes widened into great blue pools. Could it possibly be that he had misconstrued its meaning? He felt a spark of optimism ignite in his breast.

‘But it said ─’

‘If you had not been so hasty, or _nosy_ ,’ she noted harshly, ‘then you would have been able to examine the letter in its entirety. In that case, you would soon have discovered that it was _not_ intended for Mr Lennox.’

‘Ah! But it _did_ mention him,’ John emphasised, stabbing his finger in her direction as if making a point.

‘It did indeed,’ she allowed. ‘But it was not _to_ him. A letter can mention a person without being addressed to said person,’ Mrs Hale reminded John. ‘Now, I cannot tell you to whom it was intended, or what it was about. That is, you _will_ find out, I give you my word, but not now, this is not the moment, it can wait. We have more pressing matters to discuss,’ she asserted, knowing that an admission about Fred, the mutiny, and his exile would be a lengthy conversation for another day, and one she was not prepared to have with Mr Thornton unless he had chosen to become part of their family.

‘But please believe me when I say that the letter you saw was not to Mr Lennox, nor was it to an admirer. It was to someone who I can promise you, Margaret may love a great deal, but that she will never harbour romantic feelings for, nor he for her. I am sure of it, as sure as I am that you are sitting here before me now, Mr Thornton.’

John leaned his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands, at a loss of what to think or say.

Perceiving his misgivings, Mrs Hale ventured to affix: ‘You have said yourself that your connection with Miss Latimer is innocent, so, can you not permit that Margaret may likewise have an innocent association with Mr Lennox? It surely must be allowed to go both ways. Love is founded on trust, Mr Thornton, and you have to ask yourself whether you trust my daughter,’ she pontificated. ‘If you do not, if you do not have faith in the integrity of her character, then I suggest we end this conversation here and now, because you would _not_ deserve her.’

John felt justly stung.

‘I trust her!’ he declared, as solemnly as if he were taking an oath. It was true. John did have faith in Margaret. He had more confidence in her credibility than he did in himself. It was more that he had never trusted his chances of succeeding with her, hence why he had been so ready to believe that she had offered her heart to another.

‘Good,’ Mrs Hale assented, considering the matter closed.

However, while John was more than ready to forgive Margaret of anything, whether her wrongdoing be true or false, he was not so ready to forget, because as far as he was concerned, the lawyer was still a very real threat to his happiness. ‘Can I therefore take it to mean that she cares nothing for Lennox?’ John pressed, a foul taste soiling his mouth as that rake's name escaped his lips. ‘But surely, he has an interest in pursuing her.’ Of this John had no doubt, especially after the way the cad had circled Margaret possessively at the exhibition.

Mrs Hale could not fathom the logic behind the mill master’s unease. ‘And what if he does?’

John let out an irritated grunt. ‘Well, is he not the preferable candidate to be your daughter’s husband?’ he asked bluntly.

Mrs Hale wrinkled her nose. ‘How so?’ she queried, confused as to why Henry’s regard for Margaret should pose a problem for Mr Thornton, a man who had already secured the young lady’s affections and her parent’s approval.

John scoffed. ‘He is clever, educated, in a refined profession, handsome, well-connected, a proper gentleman,’ he stressed, feeling more than a little foolish and extremely reproachful at finding himself rattling off a list of his rival’s qualities.

Mrs Hale looked John up and down in a way that was most disconcerting, as if she were taking full stock of him. ‘And are you none of those things, Mr Thornton?’ she challenged.

‘Not in the same way and you know it!’ John bit back, rather bitterly, more so than he had intended, but he could not help himself when his pride was rattled. ‘I know what people like you think of the likes of me!’ he snarled.

Mrs Hale gasped. ‘People like _me_?’

‘Yes!’ John seethed, unable to control his frustration, a blistering firestorm that raged within his veins. ‘People from the south. You see men like me as uncouth, rough around the edges, uneducated. We are not attuned to the genteel customs of your society and that offends you. I will remind you that I am a tradesman,’ he said, spitting the word out as if it were a profane slur that tainted his tongue to pronounce. ‘Where you come from, I am a nobody, so why should I think you could possibly wish to have me as your son-in-law? I would forever be an embarrassment.’

Mrs Hale sat in silence for a moment while she allowed his temper to cool. After growing up with a father who was prone to tantrums, Mrs Hale had learnt from an early age that when dealing with someone throwing a hissy-fit, it was best to give them the necessary interval to settle down. And, in due course, she found that she was right to do so. After several minutes, Mr Thornton’s anger subsided, and she watched as his resentment dissipated into remorse.

‘Goodness, Mr Thornton, you really should do something about that chip on your shoulder before it does you harm,’ she warned sternly.

John bristled. She was right, he knew she was. John could not help but grin to himself. He had never been chastised so much in his life; he was not used to being confronted like this. He smiled because it reminded him of another woman who had a certain skill for telling him off, and by God! ─ how he loved her for it!

Like mother like daughter, he thought fondly.

‘You said that you like plain talking, well, I shall talk plainly, Mr Thornton,’ Mrs Hale cautioned, a plucky pucker to her lips. ‘You are correct. You and I are as opposite as chalk and cheese. We are different genders. We are different ages. We are from different parts of the country, spheres that have opposing experiences, expectations, and energies. That is all undeniable. But I do not see our dissimilarities as a barrier, I see them as a blessing. You and I, dear boy, we are far removed from each other in every respect, but we are equal in the eyes of God, nonetheless. That adjudication means that I have no right to appraise the value of your character, particularly based on such petty trivialities as your occupation or origin. In fact, far from demeaning you, Mr Thornton, I envy you!’ she confessed.

John felt his ego collapse into a pile of rubble. ‘ _You_ envy _me_?’ he echoed.

‘Yes! You have all the advantages in life that I wish I could have been afforded. You have the freedom to aspire to be who and what you wish. Your prospects are not thwarted by your sex. Your ambitions are not shackled by your circumstances. Do you not know how privileged that makes you, Mr Thornton?!’ she lectured, her voice gradually rising in both volume and vigour.

‘While you can fly higher and higher, people like me, as you so delicately put it, our wings are clipped by the confines of our class. We do not have the same vitality, the same initiative, the same passion that you are born and bred to foster. So, no, far from disparaging you, Mr Thornton, I find myself admiring your integrity and applauding your triumphs in the face of tribulations,’ she professed, tears glistening her eyes, resembling lakes of golden-brown caramel. ‘I would just hate to see you remain a slave to your insecurities, because you have a great deal to recommend you, but bitterness will rot even the most worthy of men’s hearts!’

John thought on this.

‘I appreciate your words Mrs Hale, truly, I do. They mean more to me than you will ever know,’ John said quietly, his eyes trained on a loose floorboard three inches away from his foot. He would need to fix that himself, he could not have Mrs Hale, Margaret, or even Dixon tripping on it. It made John recall two nights ago when Margaret had slipped and fell into his arms on the stairs. John groaned as he felt his limbs ache for her still, mourning the loss of her warm body pressed snugly against his own, a cavity only she could satisfy.

‘But it does not change anything. Miss Hale does not care for me, I know she does not, she told me so herself. While you may think me a steady choice here in Milton, men like Lennox, they can offer Miss Hale a comfortable and contented life away from the poverty and anguish of this new, ruthless England. Your daughter will not want to be attached to a man who lives in a merciless town and who makes his fortune from something as tasteless as the cotton trade. Why would she choose me when she could choose a man like him?’ John questioned, his anxieties pouring from his soulful eyes.

Mrs Hale sniffed. ‘Because of what you have just said,’ she explained, a tender inflection to her tone. Patting his hand yet again, she went on. ‘You are honest, you are humble, you are honourable. _These_ , Mr Thornton, these are the characteristics my daughter champions more than anything else. So, do not degrade yourself, sir, because you may not be a gentleman in the typical sense of the word, but I believe that you are a gentleman in the truest sense. You are worth ten of just about any other man I have ever met.’

‘What is more, the world is changing. It is not the same place it was when I was a girl. Before long, the idle rich classes will become obsolete and men like you will rule the day. A gentleman is becoming an ambiguous term, and whether you consider it from a material or moral perspective, I do not think that any one person can accurately or definitively define what constitutes a gentleman. No, I think deciding whether a man is a gentleman or not cannot be decreed by others. I think it is a state of mind, something that is private to a man’s own heart.’

‘Besides, boo to Mr Lennox!’ Mrs Hale vented, flapping her hand as if to swat the subject of their discussion away like an irksome fly. ‘I hear he was terribly rude to you in London. Margaret told me all about it. She said that she was extremely disappointed in his behaviour and I understand that she staunchly defended you after you had departed.’

John was intrigued.

‘I must say that I was surprised to learn that you quitted the event so promptly, Mr Thornton. I should have thought you would have stayed to try and spend more time with Margaret, to show her your qualities, to prove to her that your attentions were constant, that your affections were in earnest. I should have imagined you would wish to present yourself more favourably when amongst her friends and family, to form a good impression, especially if a challenger was prowling about. Nonetheless, I understand you stormed off in quite the huff. Hmm, jealousy, Mr Thornton, it really is such an unattractive vice.’

John was irritated.

‘ _Men_! You are all the same!’ Mrs Hale criticised, a flush of colour animating her sallow cheeks. ‘Margaret is not a prize to be won, not something to be bought or bartered over like a commodity that goes to the highest bidder! So, what if Mr Lennox is more suitable for Margaret theoretically? Perhaps he is, but does she not have the right to dictate what and whom she wants?’

‘Why do men always have to decide for a woman what she should think, how she should feel, what she should choose? Women have so few opportunities, such limited freedom. Marriage robs a woman of all her self-determination, leaving it in the gift of her husband to regulate the perimeters of her independence. Therefore, a woman should at least be permitted the liberty to choose what man she will be bound to, given that he will be her keeper. Please, Mr Thornton, do not belittle Margaret by deciding for her that she should love a man who she does not. Mr Lennox may be an excellent suitor with many qualities, but he is not _you_ , and it is _you_ she wants!’ Mrs Hale harangued.

John studied his hand, a single finger tracing along the lines that mapped his palm.

‘How…how do you know she wants me?’ he asked, afraid that this was yet another dream.

‘She told me.’

John sighed deeply, burying his face in his hands. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. If it was, then he would never sleep again, because he could not endure another minute of this sweet torture. John was just about to nip his finger and thumb together so that he could pinch himself, to check whether he was asleep or awake, but just as he was about to do this, Mrs Hale interrupted his thoughts.

‘Margaret has your gloves,’ she stated.

John jolted.

‘Gloves?’ he parroted. ‘My ─ my gloves!’

‘Yes. You left them after you…proposed,’ she mumbled coyly, reluctant to evoke memories of an event that must still be painful for the poor man.

John let out a loud and long puff of disbelief, the sound whistling through his nostrils.

‘Are you sure they are mine?’

‘Most definitely,’ she confirmed. ‘Black. Leather. Sheepskin lining. If that is not enough, they had your initials in gold thread: JT. If you can think of a reason why my daughter would be in possession of gloves belonging to yet another gentleman with that monogram, then pray tell me, since that would be most unsettling.’

John snorted.

‘She has had my gloves all this time?’ he mulled, more to himself than to his companion. John suddenly began to laugh, a deep rumble that resounded around the room. ‘I have her gloves too,’ he chortled, retrieving the solitary garment from his pocket.

Mrs Hale took it from him and studied it closely. Oh my! It was indeed Margaret’s glove. It was the silken ivory-coloured pair that Edith had bought her cousin when she and Captain Lennox had stopped off in Paris on their honeymoon.

Sensing her confusion, John thought it best to explain. ‘Miss Hale left them after the riot. In all the turmoil of the ensuing weeks, I was unable to find the right moment to return them.’ Then, realising his lie, he amended it by saying: ‘No, no, that is not true. I just could not bring myself to give them back to her.’ But John did not care that he had been indecorous, he could not stop smiling, he could not believe it, she had kept his gloves too!

‘Oh! For goodness’ sake!’ Mrs Hale blustered like a gust of wind. ‘In my day, people weren’t so forgetful. And they kept hold of their own gloves and did not go about stealing other people’s! Honestly, what is wrong with young people these days?’ she quailed, scandalised by the level and array of inappropriate behaviour that had been taking place under her nose. 

John grinned like a schoolboy. Oh, Margaret! Did that mean…?

‘Why has she got my gloves?’ he queried shyly, picking at a broken fingernail.

‘Same reason as you have hers, I would imagine,’ Mrs Hale mused, stroking her daughter’s glove, which she noticed her guest eyeing covetously. ‘She wanted to be close to you, to hold onto a part of you, even something as small as a glove. I imagine it brings her comfort, just like her gloves do for you,’ she presumed.

Perceiving his uncertainty, she added: ‘Dixon found the gloves by chance and brought them to me, assuming they belonged to Margaret’s father or br ─ a different male relation. I knew I needed to speak with Margaret directly, so, I did. We had an extensive discussion,’ she said, rubbing her brow wearily, for the exertions of the past three days had left the mother quite worn out.

‘Margaret told me _everything_ , Mr Thornton. She told me about her strengthening feelings for you and her incomprehension at finding herself falling in love for the first time. She told me about your unfortunate quarrel at the dinner party. She told me about the riot and the stone, which, Mr Thornton, I am _most_ cross with you about!’ she chastised, her eyes flashing furiously.

John reddened and felt like a child being scolded by an unforgiving school matron.

‘Mrs Hale, I can assure you that I am most sor ─’ John faltered.

‘We will forget about that for now,’ she exonerated, cutting him off. ‘Not that you deserve it, but I have decided to give you the benefit of the doubt on that score,’ she reassured him. ‘At any rate, Margaret told me much more, offering scraps of intelligence for me to piece together my puzzle, some factual, some fanciful. Margaret told me how you came the next day. She knew that you would come. She…she said that…you should know that Margaret is bitterly sorry for how she spoke to you, Mr Thornton.’

‘She is sorry?’ John reverberated in astonishment; his eyes wide. ‘She has _nothing_ to be sorry for!’

Mrs Hale was bowled over by this. She herself did not blame Margaret for refusing Mr Thornton, not if all her daughter had said was true. Nonetheless, she was still surprised that he, a snubbed suitor, was prepared to be so magnanimous. ‘Why do you say that?’

John combed his fingers through his hair yet again, far from enthusiastic to revive the humiliation of his failed proposal. ‘The fault was entirely mine. I should have been more sensitive to Miss Hale’s needs. I should have waited until she was feeling more herself. I could tell that she was overwrought, but in my restless selfishness, I pressed on with my rash request for her hand. I should have conducted myself with more consideration and chivalry,’ he confessed miserably, a hint of shame dampening his already depressed tone.

Mrs Hale smiled. ‘I do not know; a rash proposal sounds rather romantic to me.’

John sneered. ‘She did not see it that way!’

‘Hmm. Did you mean it?’ Mrs Hale probed.

John knitted his eyebrows. ‘Mean what?’

‘That you wanted to marry her?’

John spluttered. ‘Yes! I meant every word!’ He had not thought that this particular point was up for debate. They were disputing whether Margaret loved him, not the other way around, surely!

‘Well, she thinks you did not mean it,’ Mrs Hale tutted as she repositioned her bedclothes. ‘She thinks you only asked because you had to, that you considered it your unwelcome duty to rescue her reputation after her unseemly behaviour in shielding you from the demonstrators. Margaret is adamant that you did not really wish to wed her and make her your wife.’

Once again, John was on his feet, moving so briskly that one would think the man was striding across a bed of hot coals. 

‘How? Why? No!’ he cried, scraping his fingers through his thick mane of hair for what Mrs Hale counted to be the third time that evening.

‘I have never meant anything more in my whole life!’ John avowed; his shoulders stooped under the weight of his distress. ‘I ─ I am not a man who has much experience with women,’ he disclosed, unsure of whether that was embarrassing or endearing. ‘I have never…well, I have never had a dalliance of any kind. I was not interested in taking a wife, really, I was not, not until I met her!’

John leaned against the mantelpiece, his hand gripping the stone ledge tightly. As he tilted forwards, his tall frame hunched over, Mrs Hale watched as the bright blaze of the fire danced across his face, illuminating his harassed features.

‘From the moment I first saw Miss Hale, I felt…different,’ he whispered, so quietly that Mrs Hale could hardly hear him. ‘It was as if I had woken up for the first time. Since meeting her…I am not the same man. I cannot explain it,’ he said huskily.

‘I find that I cannot think, I cannot sleep, I cannot eat. I believe I am slowly losing my mind,’ he laughed weakly. ‘She is my treasure and my torment in equal measure. But this madness, this malady, she is not merely the cause of my affliction, no, she is also the cure. She is my only hope of sanity…of happiness.’

Mrs Hale picked up her handkerchief and wiped away a tear that had bubbled like a dewdrop in a crinkle below her eye. Goodness! – for such a restrained man, one who both disciplined and supressed his feelings, he certainly could express himself when he wanted to.

‘I had thought of petitioning for Mr Hale’s permission to ask Miss Hale if she would welcome my humble attentions. I thought perhaps she would allow me to pay court to her, and, over time, her good opinion of me would grow, the seeds of civility sprouting into friendship and respect. And then, possibly if I were patient, her thoughts of me might blossom into affection. But I kept putting it off. I could not work up the courage, and the time never seemed right, what with the strike. By the time the dinner party came, I felt unable to deny my feelings for Miss Hale any longer. I had determined to approach Mr Hale as soon as I was able and declare myself. But then…things changed…the riot happened,’ he brooded darkly.

John fixed his eyes on the flames, as if staring into his own personal hell, the violent blaze of Hades’ inferno smouldering in his irises. ‘I told her that I did not care about her reputation ─ _I_ _told her_ _that_! It did not even occur to me that it would be a factor,’ he divulged, his thumb skimming his jaw. ‘But I knew I had to ask her. I could not keep silent any longer. Not after what happened. When I saw her unconscious on the ground after she had been struck by the stone, I was terrified!’ John whispered, a withering glint troubling his eyes.

‘I am not surprised!’ Mrs Hale countered, somewhat inaudibly, a shiver creeping up her spine as she tried not to imagine the horrific scene of her darling daughter lying prostrate and wounded on a bed of cold stone.

John brusquely spun round to look at her, his face alight with a fever, one that was fierce and feral as it scorched his soul. ‘No! You do not understand. I was not afraid for myself. I did not care what the rioters did to me, they could kill me for all I cared!’ his voice trembling, the agony of the memory tearing him to shreds.

Mrs Hale could see why people found him ferocious, because Mr Thornton certainly was intimidating when roused. However, she had a feeling that his outbursts were more the result of his stifled sensitivity than his pretext of severity that lingered on the surface. John Thornton was a misunderstood man, she thought perceptively, the type of man who would do well with the steadfast patience and gentle reassurance of a good woman. Margaret would have her work cut out dealing with her husband’s moods, that was for sure, but the mother had a feeling that in return, Mr Thornton would love his wife with a passion that was as rare as stardust. And, by and by, they would do each other the world of good.

‘My only concern was for Miss Hale!’ John averred, looking directly at Mrs Hale in a way that rather unnerved her, for his eyes were wild with a strange yearning. ‘I thought…I thought she might not wake up. It was at that moment I knew that I could not pretend any more, I could not feign disinterest a second longer. I could not hide how I felt about her, I didn’t want to hide it,’ John explained, stalking hither and thither like a caged animal, silently cursing himself for his unruliness. ‘All I knew was that I could not lose this woman who had affected me so completely! It was clear that I would be lost without Miss Hale at the helm of my soul. I understood then that I needed her, that I wished to devote my life to protecting her from harm. I wanted to make her feel safe, to feel happy. There was no longer a doubt in my mind, _I_ _had_ to ask Miss Hale to be my wife.’

Mrs Hale sat back and mulled this over.

Swiftly glancing at her silver-gilded clock, which had just struck the half hour, Mrs Hale predicted that she had fourteen minutes left until her daughter returned. ‘Why did you not tell her any of this before? If your decision to propose had not been sudden, then why keep your feelings to yourself at all?’ she questioned, keen to find out the answer to one of Margaret’s very own questions. ‘You said that the time was never right, but you had every opportunity to give her even the slightest sign of your developing regard for her.’

John slumped against the wall. With a terribly small voice, he stuttered: ‘Because…because…’

In that instant, Mrs Hale understood.

She gasped and her eyes broadened in recognition.

‘Ah, I see,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, Mr Thornton!...you poor thing!’


	28. NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS: PART 3 OF 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I know this was a bit later than planned, my bad, but I wanted to hang out with my hubby on Valentine’s Day, especially since he has been so supportive of my writing. Thanks a million for all the very kind, detailed and encouraging comments on the previous chapter, hugely appreciated! Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it. I have literally been up all night editing it, it’s now 7:30am where I am. It has been a long journey, but we are finally almost home.
> 
> I’ve had a couple of comments about the pacing of my dialogue scenes wondering why they are so drawn-out, in other words, slow. That is a fair question. The simple answer is that I like experimenting with different styles, and I wanted to try working with a script-like feel in this story, so that readers can hopefully feel like they’re in the room with the characters. Also, with this conversation in particular, because Mrs Hale is so timid out-with her family and Mr Thornton is so private, then this conversation was naturally going to take time to build up, so the pace felt realistic to me. I don’t know if my dialogue style in this story works or not, we all have our own opinions, but it’s just an experiment. 
> 
> Lastly, I’ve published an article about fanfiction during Covid19, so if you want to read it via my Twitter or FB.

CHAPTER 28:

NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS

PART 3 OF 3

Mrs Hale clasped a hand to her heart.

She felt her pulse quicken as she listened to its relentless thrum, knowing all too well that soon, too soon, the beat of that steady drum would stop, call it a day, and she would cease to be no more.

It was a harrowing reality.

That is why this, here, now, this very conversation, that is why it was so critical.

Hearts, you see, they should never be taken for granted, because once broken, they cannot be mended, they cannot be made whole again, no matter what people may say.

Mrs Hale felt her energies waning and her weakening body begin to sag against the pillows, but she could not stop now, not when she was so close, not when Margaret would be home in twelve minutes and she and Mr Thornton would be reunited for better or for worse.

Mrs Hale peered at the persecuted man in front of her, a man who despite his innate strength of character, body, and conscience, found himself in such a wretched prison of despair.

The poor, silly boy.

John hung his head in shame.

Mrs Hale shook hers. It really was terribly simple. ‘You were scared,’ she said softly.

After a pause, John nodded, his head hardly moving, weighed down by the warren of merciless thoughts that dwelt in his mind as unwelcome tenants.

‘But it was not because you were scared that she would say no,’ Mrs Hale guessed.

John’s gaze slowly lifted to meet hers, and she saw the wretchedness that hounded him, writhing inside him like a demon, trapped, a spawning leech of self-loathing that he could not rid himself of. John did not need to say anything, his silence spoke a thousand words, each one a vicious slur on his character. He was staggered at how often Mrs Hale hit the nail squarely on the head. John was feeling guilty for having initially written her off as being an insipid and withering woman of little consequence, when in fact, her astuteness was abundant.

‘Oh, Mr Thornton,’ Mrs Hale sighed sympathetically, a snivel tingling her dainty nose. ‘You were scared that Margaret would say yes.’

My-oh-my! It was incredible. Just to think, a man could have everything and still feel that he was nothing. He could be rich, healthy, industrious, the world his oyster, yet he could still feel utterly worthless when he laid his heart at the feet of the woman he worshipped.

Mrs Hale ran her fingers along the spine of her Bible, glancing at the chapter that lay open before her. She smiled. God was good! He had given her the encouragement and guidance she needed, and this divine passage of scripture now afforded her the courage and conviction she required to continue with the conclusion of this most decisive and delicate conversation.

Mrs Hale found that her throat had dried, the spittle in her mouth no doubt being sucked into the air as she had gasped and gaped at Mr Thornton mere moments before. She really must caution herself against any further impropriety, the mother now beginning to appreciate from whom her daughter had inherited her indecorous traits. After swallowing thickly, she licked her reedy lips before venturing to speculate what lay at the heart of Mr Thornton’s insecurity, the reason why he had failed to tell Margaret the truth, which was that he had passionately wanted her, no, needed her, from the moment he had met her. She now knew why Mr Thornton had stayed away all this time, why he had not confessed to Margaret that with an unrelenting and unrivalled devotion, that he _had_ loved her, that he _did_ love her, and that he _would_ continue to love her until the day he died.

‘If she said yes and you married, you were scared that Margaret would find you wanting. And then, no matter how desperately you tried, you could not make your wife happy,’ Mrs Hale whispered, her soul weeping for him. ‘You believed that you would spend the rest of your life fervently and faithfully loving a woman who would never, and who could never, love you in return.’

Sand filtered through the hourglass of time as the two people in the room came to terms with this devastating revelation, the uncompromising tempo of the tick-tock of the clock the only sound that penetrated the silence that stifled the atmosphere. 

‘Yes,’ John admitted at last, his voice as quiet as can be, his forehead resting on his strong arm, which still reclined on the mantel. ‘At first, I was simply afraid that she would not want to know me. The thing is…I have no idea of what a man is supposed to say to a woman, of what he should do when he feels drawn to her as I did to Miss Hale. I read constantly, but the books I study teach me about tangible matters, facts, figures, but nothing as unquantifiable as feelings. I am a dull dog, you see. I can talk endlessly about commerce and the law, but if you ask me to conceive, manufacture if you will, sweet words by which to woo a young lady, then I have nothing in my repertoire. I am inexperienced and unqualified in the art of courting, meaning that I felt horribly incompetent every time I was around Miss Hale, a state of ineptitude that I was not accustomed to,’ John scorned, scratching the bristles of his jaw, a shadow of dark hair forming there.

‘It drove me mad with frustration. I believe it was that irritation, that taunting impression of failure that made me so irascible, so ready to quarrel with her at every turn. I was never displeased with her; how could I be when Miss Hale was, _is_ , so lovely in every way? No, I was riled by my own shortcomings, I was angry with myself for being so pathetic. Where I only ever wished to admire your daughter, to praise her, I found myself chastising and critiquing her, but not because of any fault on her part, but because of my own accursed inadequacy in the face of her perfection! She unravels me,’ John laughed privately. ‘Her inherent majesty is darned infuriating in its magnificence.’

As John spoke, he noticed a framed picture sitting prominently on a small writing desk. Leaning nearer to inspect the miniature, he spied that it was an oil-painting, nothing extravagant, merely a modest portrait. Nonetheless, it was the most charming piece of art he had ever seen, and it thrilled him, his heart tingling as it pulled him closer. The subject was a young woman, a girl really, a blossoming beauty. She sat in a luscious green field surrounded by vibrant wildflowers, the skirts of her pale-pink dress billowing around her, making her look like a petal herself. She was petite, poised, pleasing on the eye, incredibly darling. Her chestnut curls flowed long and free, spilling over her porcelain shoulders, which peeked out coyly from the sleeves of her feminine gown. With twinkling eyes, she smiled warmly up at him, and in return, John smiled back.

Reaching out a tentative finger, one which itched to touch her, John tenderly caressed her blushing cheek. Good God! ─ what he would give to have that picture. For a split second, John contemplated stealing it, but then he thought better of his thieving foolishness, he was a magistrate after all. But Lord save him, John knew that he would willingly sell his soul to the Devil to have that angel smile at him like that, once, just once.

John wondered what he would have been doing in his life when this was being painted. He guessed that it was around four years ago, give or take, so that would make him roughly twenty-six. He would have been at the mill, working, striving to build his business, obsessing over profit and loss, supply and demand, import and export, inflation and tax. It was unbelievable! How could he have been fixated with such meaningless matters when she, this sweet creature was only eight hours away by train, sitting on the grass, laughing, smiling, his glorious girl? Even although he had only known her for seven short months, John could hardly recall his world before Margaret Hale, and now that he knew she existed, if he lost her completely, it would be like all the joy had been ripped from his life. He would never know purpose nor pleasure again; he would only know excruciating pain in their parting as she was torn from him forever.

John tried to discern the name of the artist which had been scrawled sloppily in the corner of the composition. What was that it said? John scrunched up his eyes. Fre…no, never mind, he could not make out the rest.

Wrenching his eyes from the mesmerising portrait, John continued with his homily, his baritone timbre husky. ‘She is so magnificent!’ he breathed, the whisper leaving his lips in reverence. ‘And I was, _am_ , so uninteresting and underwhelming in contrast. How could I possibly sustain her interest, her respect, or her affection for five minutes, let alone throughout fifty years of marriage? I had this image of her laughing at me if I even tried to so much as compliment her appearance or attributes. I thought that she would tell me that she did not like me, that she found my interest in her offensive. It turns out that I was right,’ he scoffed derisively, a scowl troubling his features.

‘But if I stayed quiet, then there was still hope. It…it sounds ludicrous, but it was like a fantasy, this idea that Miss Hale could still say yes, that there was a chance she might want me just as much as I craved her,’ John admitted tautly, his teeth skimming his knuckles which he had raised to his chin. ‘But I knew that if I asked her, then the spell of delusion and desire would be broken, and I would have to face the reality of her disregard,’ he agonised.

Mrs Hale nodded in understanding. Oh dear! _The course of true love never did run smooth._

‘But you are right,’ John assented. ‘My fears soon changed and curdled into something far uglier. It was one thing having her reject me as Miss Hale, but…as my wife…I could not stand to disappoint her. To have her wake up every day and regret the ring on her finger. To feel her recoil at my touch. To see her eyes look past me, hollow with hopelessness. To hear her wince every time her name was coupled with my own,’ John went on, his face contorted with misery at the thought of such a discontented union.

‘To want to devote myself to her in every conceivable way, but for her to despise me. _No_ , I could not do that to her or to myself. I just…I didn’t want to let go of that hope,’ John explained lamely, suddenly feeling more pitiful than ever. ‘So yes, you are right, I was scared that if Miss Hale were ever to say yes and become my wife, then I would inevitably ruin her life. I would resign her to an existence where she was loved, _so very much_ , but in turn, she would find herself incarcerated in a contract of companionship in which she could _never_ learn to love me in return. And now that I have asked her, I have done just that, my hope is gone, and I was right to be fretful, for I have let Miss Hale down already in so many ways,’ John concluded, dropping into his chair in defeat.

Mrs Hale’s heart bled for him. It did not sound ridiculous, not one bit.

‘You should have told her,’ Mrs Hale advised gently. ‘I sympathise with your fears, Mr Thornton, truly I do, but nonetheless, you should have told Margaret how you felt long ago.’

‘I know,’ was all John said in reply, his bleary eyes staring off into the distance, most likely to that idyllic Helstone meadow many miles away. There, he could see a man sitting in his shirt and waistcoat, a stray stem of grass in his hand, which he used to trace a tickling path along someone’s neck, a woman who wore a pink dress and lay in his sturdy arms. Wrapped in each other’s intimate embrace, the couple smiled contentedly at each other, their noses rubbing, their lips brushing, the sun shining down on them, kissing their skin.

‘I wish I had!’ he sniffed, the sheen of tears wetting his orbs. ‘She still would have said no, but I would have done the right thing by her in being honest. At least then, she would not have been able to reproach me. Miss Hale could not have misinterpreted my proposal as being motivated by obligation; she would have known that my feelings were sincere. If I had not squandered her good opinion before, then there is no doubt that I have forfeited it now. After all that I have done, Miss Hale will not wish to become _my_ Mrs Thornton, of that I am certain,’ he predicted pessimistically.

Mrs Hale stretched out a hand and patted his with heartfelt compassion, the simple gesture speaking for itself.

Scuffing his feet on the floor in self-consciousness, John mumbled: ‘I got her a ring.’

Mrs Hale’s face lit up.

‘A ring?’ she cooed.

John nodded and reached into his breast pocket. Retrieving the small blue-velvet box, he stroked it between his fingers tenderly. It looked rather funny, his large digits effortlessly encircling something so tiny. With the air of a small child showing someone his most prized possession, John passed it to Mrs Hale.

On opening the case, the mother’s heart melted. ‘It is perfect,’ she applauded, her words floating out of her in hushed awe. After looking at her companion for permission, she took the ring out of the box with delicate care. Mrs Hale studied the simple gold band with its solitary sapphire and modest spattering of pearls and diamonds, each stone winking at her in the flickering candlelight. It was at that moment, as the sickly woman glanced at her own rings, that she had a thought, an inspiration…but never mind that now, such sentiments could wait for another day.

In response to her compliment, John coloured, pleased as punch that she approved. If Mrs Hale liked it, then hopefully that would mean somebody else might just too, the very person whose slender finger he had dreamed of placing it on. ‘I saw it and I just knew that it was the right ring for her,’ John grinned, although, he would not be admitting to his trip to Helstone, not just yet. There was only one person he wished to talk to about that. He had a yellow rose for her, preserved in a book, and the mill master privately fantasised about combing his fingers through her silken hair and placing the flower behind her ear, before gently kissing her lobe.

‘I would have looked for something with yellow, I know it is her favourite colour, but the blue…well, it made me think of her eyes. And the shape, the style…the design was unusual yet elegant…just like her,’ John blushed, appreciating that he knew nothing about jewellery, only hoping that his taste was to Margaret’s liking. The ring was for her after all, not him.

‘Hmm, yes,’ Mrs Hale replied inattentively, still examining the bauble. ‘How do you know Margaret’s favourite colour is yellow? Did she tell you?’ she asked absently, thinking that of all the things Margaret and Mr Thornton might have spoken about during their brief acquaintance, her preferred colour seemed unlikely in its arbitrariness.

John coughed. ‘Oh! I don’t recall. I think ─ emm ─ well ─ ehh ─,’ he stuttered, trying frantically not to let slip about his recurrent dreams. Mrs Hale may have been supportive thus far, but John had a feeling that confessing to romanticising about Margaret waking up in his bed each morning whilst still a maiden would be a step too far in the direction of inexcusable impropriety.

However, as Mrs Hale paused and pondered, it was her who saved John from his babbling explanation. ‘You purchased this before you had even asked her? Was that wise?’

‘No!’ John jeered, shoving his hands in his pockets. ‘But it is of no matter. It made no difference then, and it makes no difference now. Miss Hale is the only woman I have ever wanted to marry and the only woman I will ever consider making my wife. That ring is hers whether she wants it or not,’ he decreed matter-of-factly, nodding towards the trinket resting in Mrs Hale’s hands as if to signify that the family should keep it.

Well, that changed everything, thought Mrs Hale. There was now no question that the mill master had fully intended to ask Margaret to marry him after all. It had nothing to do with that tiresome riot. Goodness! The mother could not wait until her daughter heard this romantic admission from Mr Thornton’s own lips. All she could think of now was the idea of him sliding the ring onto Margaret’s finger. How thrilling! The mother wondered how Mr Thornton would proffer his proposal. Would he stand? Sit? Kneel? What words would he employ? There were so many engaging, (pun intended), options to choose from. She only hoped that he remained sweet and sensitive in his manner, not reverting to his typically stern self, no ─ no, that would not do at all. However, Mrs Hale knew one thing for sure, she jolly well hoped he would stop dithering and get on with it, preferably asking Margaret for her hand before the night was out.

There was an interval of stillness between them as they both silently admired the ring, each imagining it resting on Margaret’s pretty hand, the symbolic band witnessing so many wonderful moments in her life. They each envisioned Margaret adorning it the day she married, the day she gave birth to her first babe, the days she herself watched her own children walk down the aisle, each of them self-assured in their understanding of love, having grown up with parents who personified it every day of their marriage.

Then, after a while, John quietly enquired: ‘You…you said that Miss Hale regretted what she said…when I tried to ask her to marry me.’

Mrs Hale closed the box and handed it back to John. Taking a deep breath, she gazed at him kindly. ‘You have to understand that Margaret has endured a great deal in recent months, Mr Thornton. Her cousin, who was like a sister to her married, meaning that her closest companion now had a new life, a new role as a wife and mother, something which Margaret cannot yet quite comprehend herself. She then left London, the place that had been her home for most of her life, and a family who she was arguably closer to than her father and I. Our daughter then came back to Helstone, a stable home that she adored, thinking that she was finally settled. But as soon as Margaret felt secure, her father announced that we were moving, pulling the rug out from under her feet. He took us to a new city, far away, a town that was different to anything she has ever known, and where the customs and expectations were foreign to a girl who has really seen very little of the world. Margaret has had to contend with considerable change, and I, for one, am proud of how well she has coped given the complex circumstances.’

John listened attentively to everything that Mrs Hale said. It was all true, and yet, he had not fully appreciated the great weight that Margaret had carried on her young shoulders these past few months. God! – she was incredible!

‘And amidst all this chaotic uncertainty, she met a man who stirred feelings in her that she had never experienced before,’ Mrs Hale went on, noticing the way John’s ears pricked. ‘What you need to understand about Margaret, Mr Thornton, is that she is not like other young women. She has not been taught how to encourage or accept a man’s attentions. For all her poise and pride, she is in fact terribly innocent. Margaret’s aloofness and animosity towards you, it was not born of hostility, but because she was deeply confused and at odds with herself,’ the mother explained, keen that John should fathom the motivation behind Margaret’s mask of antipathy.

John absorbed this. Yes, had Margaret not said it herself? “ _I am sorry…to be so blunt…I have not learnt how to...how to refuse. How to respond when a man talks to me as you just have.”_

John felt a spasm of guilt scrunch his abdomen, aggravating the muscles there. Oh, Margaret! Sweetheart! How he had wronged her!

‘For the first time in her life, she met a man who stoked strange feelings within her, feelings that she did not recognise. And yes, let us be honest, Margaret had warned herself that she should not like you. A man who is in trade, a man who intimidates his workers, a man who is not driven by compassion but by commerce. You were like nobody she had ever met before. Margaret could not understand what she felt for you or why she did. So, when you asked her to join you in matrimony, to give herself to you so wholly as your wife, she was overwhelmed. And, in her panic, she rebelled. But not against you, Mr Thornton, no, it was against herself, because she was frightened,’ Mrs Hale described. ‘No, she was not frightened of _you_ ,’ the mother clarified, discerning the concerned look on his face. ‘No, Margaret was frightened of acknowledging what you had come to mean to her. And now…well, now she thinks you do not love her.’

John’s head snapped up, and he felt his heart constrict as if a fist were clenching it tightly. ‘How can she think that?!’ he cried. ‘After everything that has passed between us? Surely, she _must_ know how I feel! How could Mar ─ Miss Hale think she does not matter to me?!’

Fixing him with a grim gaze, Mrs Hale decided to be blunt. ‘Because you told her so.’

John gulped.

Maintaining her unsmiling expression, Mrs Hale persisted with her admonishment. ‘You told my daughter that she means nothing to you, that you were relieved that she had said no to your offer, and that you would not be renewing your attentions.’

John flinched as if burnt, his mind screaming out at the recollection of his atrocious lies. ‘I know,’ he whispered.

‘That was despicable!’ she rebuked; her tone pitiless. ‘You should be ashamed!’

‘Do you not think I know that?!’ John nipped, his head drooped like a dog who had been flicked on the nose and punished. ‘Believe me when I say that I will never forgive myself!’

Mrs Hale clicked her teeth. ‘But you did not mean it?’

‘ _No_!’ he breathed, horrified that she could think he had. ‘Of course not!’

John could not bear it. Is this what Margaret had been thinking? His poor darling! He had assumed that his sentiments may have offended her or that his tone had shaken her, he could understand that. But he had not considered for a moment that she had taken his words to heart. He assumed that she, clever creature that she was, would have seen right through his charade of indifference. God! – he was a fiend! 

Mrs Hale continued to study him. ‘But you said it because of the letter?’

‘Yes,’ he sighed, rubbing at his brow. That damned letter!

She nodded. ‘You were hurt. You were jealous. You were heartbroken.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you need to tell Margaret the truth. You owe her that much.’

John shook his head despondently. Oh! ─ how he wished he could speak with Margaret! He felt his legs shake uncontrollably, desperate for him to soar from his chair and disappear from the room, so that he could search the house from top to bottom until he found her. But no, it was no use, it was not that simple. ‘She will not want to hear it,’ he groaned.

Mrs Hale tilted her head. ‘Why?’

John let out a scornful growl. ‘I have abused her trust. I shouted at her. I lied to her. I scared her. I made her cry,’ he went on, counting his crimes on his hand. ‘If that list is not enough, then I can go on and on. No, she will not want to see me. I cannot ask her to speak with me, to listen to my inadequate apologies. It is not fair on her,’ he determined, folding his arms across his broad chest. ‘If a man had treated my daughter so indefensibly, then I would horsewhip him,’ he muttered.

‘Well, yes, I shall certainly bear that punitive possibility in mind, sir,’ Mrs Hale joked, if not a tad curtly, for she was not ready to forgive him so easily. ‘But yes, it is indeed conceivable that Margaret will refuse to grant you an audience,’ Mrs Hale agreed judiciously. ‘But then again…I did not have you down as a coward, Mr Thornton.’

John bristled at this and scowled. ‘I am not!’ he snarled.

‘Really?’ Mrs Hale puffed, raising her eyebrows. ‘Faint heart, Mr Thornton, faint heart. If you truly love her, then you will tell her how you feel. Ask her again,’ she advised.

John sat forward in his chair and stared at Mrs Hale; his face etched with uncertainty. He studied her as if she were a painting he was trying to interpret. ‘Do you really give me your blessing to ask your only daughter to marry me?’ he asked disbelievingly. ‘After all I have done? After all I have said? After all my mistakes?’

Mrs Hale did not need to consider her verdict. ‘Yes,’ she answered with complete simplicity. ‘Mr Thornton, you have made mistakes, but you are not a bad man,’ she settled. ‘You are not wicked; you are simply human. We all let ourselves down at times. All I need to know is that you will never truly hurt her. I could not give my precious Margaret away to a man who would cause her to suffer. I know men have such rights in marriage,’ she said sadly, ‘but no woman deserves that, least of all my gentle girl.’

‘Hurt her?!’ John repeated as if the very notion were foreign to him, his own voice strangled. ‘ _Never_!’ he protested most vehemently. ‘I would never lay a violent finger on your daughter!’

Mrs Hale sucked her teeth. ‘You have a temper,’ she reminded him frankly, not prepared to mince her words on this grave matter.

John was taken aback. ‘Aye, I do!’ he conceded readily. ‘But do you know why I love Miss Hale? It is because she challenges me. She makes me want to be a better man. Nobody has ever made me feel like she does, not in all my life. She keeps me on my toes. When I am with her, I feel calmer, more content, more compassionate. I know that she can help teach me how to overcome my temper. I cannot lie, I will not pretend that we will never argue or that I will never be difficult. Disputes are inevitable between two such strong-willed people who do not like to back down. I imagine that she will frequently consider me tenacious to the point of distraction. It would be a falsehood to pretend otherwise. But I know that I do not want my temper to ruin my tenderness for her, and if I have to work at it every day for the rest of my life, then so be it!’ he vowed passionately. ‘Besides, I have recently decided that I shall never use my fists again to express my displeasure, not for anything. I do this for her, you understand, because I cannot bear her disappointment in me.’

Even although she kept a sober countenance, Mrs Hale was enjoying the master’s speech immensely, for she had noted a key shift in his phrasing. Where before Mr Thornton’s wording had shown that he considered the prospect of marriage to Margaret as a mere farfetched fantasy, he now kept saying, “will,” to describe their future life together. As far as Mrs Hale was concerned, this telling use of terminology implied that in his mind, Mr Thornton was finally beginning to accept the possibility that he in fact might, just might, be able to take Margaret as his lawfully wedded wife.

However, unfortunately, John was not so encouraged. No, on the contrary, he was devastated! First, Mrs Hale had warned him against betraying her daughter, but now he was being warned against brutality as well? It was too much for his sense of honour to suffer.

Thinking back on his nauseating conversation with old Mr Whitehall, John said with absolute certainty: ‘I would do ─ no, I _will do_ everything in my power to safeguard your daughter’s welfare, to look after her when you are gone, whether she is my wife or not. But I assure you, Miss Hale does not need protected from me, not now, not ever!’

Mrs Hale listened to this and nodded. ‘That is fair,’ she resolved. ‘That is honest. And Margaret is not perfect herself, nobody is. Lord in Heaven knows she has a temper of her own!’ Mrs Hale sighed, thinking back on all the slammed doors, stomped foots, and sulks that her daughter had been the source of over the years.

‘I agree, Mr Thornton, I do not believe that your outburst over the letter was a sign of malice. I think you were most likely overwrought by the demands that burden you and, in that instant, you probably felt all of your hopes had been trampled. You lashed out in the heat of the moment; it happens. I do not condone your fit of temper, but I do understand it,’ she decreed. ‘I do not think you are a cruel man, Mr Thornton, but I will say that if Margaret’s family were ever to discover that she had been mistreated, then they would not hesitate to remove her from her husband’s home,’ she cautioned, thinking on how Fred would react if he ever learnt that a man had harmed a hair on his sister’s head. He would sail back to England at once, in defiance of his exile to whisk Margaret away, noose or no noose threatening his neck.

‘I should expect no less!’ John replied without a qualm.

If truth be told, then Mrs Hale was not genuinely concerned that Mr Thornton would misuse her daughter in any way. Indeed, for if that had been the case, then she, a loving mother, would not have countenanced supporting their union for a moment. However, after spending many years as a parson’s wife, she could not count the number of women who had turned up on her doorstep, tears streaming down their faces, each bruised either inside or out by the viciousness of their husbands. Mrs Hale had found that in many cases it was young women, women who had married a man who seemed gentle and generous on first acquaintance, but now that she was legally his, behind closed doors, in the place of pretty promises of love everlasting, she found herself the victim of unspeakable acts of violence. With no laws to protect her, she remained her husband’s prisoner that he could abuse as he pleased.

No, Mrs Hale did not believe that Mr Thornton was such a man, but one could never know, and he was clearly an extremely powerful specimen when it came to both his physique and personality. All the same, despite her trust in the integrity of his honour, Mrs Hale felt it her solemn duty to remind Mr Thornton that such atrocities would not be tolerated when it came to Margaret Hale. 

Mrs Hale was roused from her thoughts as she heard her guest enquire: ‘Mrs Hale, I have to know: where is your daughter tonight? And your husband for that matter? I have been here for near enough an hour and we have not heard or seen another soul since I entered this room.’ John’s eyes flitted to the door, a mixture of longing and trepidation gleaming in them.

Mrs Hale turned to him; her eyes dazed with sleepiness, the trials of the day taking their toll on her. ‘Oh, they are out. My husband is at a literary lecture, and Margaret, she is visiting a new-born baby,’ Mrs Hale responded truthfully.

However, thinking on this, Mrs Hale impulsively decided to broach another topic. ‘She will want children. Will you?’ It was a forward question, she knew, but then again, forthrightness had been the underlying tone of this entire interview thus far. What was more, Mrs Hale refused to apologise for seeking happiness for her daughter, not when she had such little time left to offer Margaret her guidance and support.

John had been distracted at first, preoccupied in picturing his lovely Margaret holding a baby with jet-black hair in her arms, whilst also being depressed that she was not even in the house, so there was now no chance that he would be able to see or speak to her this night. Nonetheless, on heeding Mrs Hale’s words, John startled, shocked by the directness of her intimate question.

‘Of course!’ he reacted without hesitation. ‘I had never really thought about children before I met Miss Hale. But now, I find myself often thinking about the family we could have had,’ he admitted, more to himself than to his companion.

Mrs Hale was grateful for Mr Thornton’s enthusiastic response. She knew that Margaret wished to have her own family. She smiled, what a natural mother her daughter would make. Still, Mrs Hale was certainly well-acquainted enough with the marriage bed to know that men and women had little say over if and when they conceived a child, especially if their union was passionate and regular. Nevertheless, she also knew that some husbands denied their wives’ the right to have a family. Indeed, she thought of her poor sister Shaw, who had once confided that her own husband, a man disinterested in children, had permitted her Edith, but after that, his attentions had been fleeting and carefully arranged in such a way that they would not be blessed with a second babe. No, Mrs Hale could not abide such a fate for Margaret, but listening to Mr Thornton, she felt confident that he would be an affectionate husband, and, in time, a father, and the picture in her mind of her daughter cradling her own baby in her arms only seemed to grow in clarity.

In fact, what Mrs Hale did not know, was that by the end of the year, Margaret really would have her own little one, a darling daughter no less. The sweet cherub would have her mother’s hair and nose, and her father’s eyes and chin, a real beauty, the apple of her parent’s eye. But sadly, for Mrs Hale, she would never meet her precious granddaughter, nor the other fourteen of her grandchildren that Fred and Margaret would welcome into the world after she had departed it. Perhaps it was better she did not know, for such a divination would have tugged her between two opposing poles of gladness and grief, the strain of which would have been too much for her heart to bear.

However, Mrs Hale was stirred from her thoughts as she distantly heard Mr Thornton unexpectedly announce: ‘I cannot leave Milton.’

Mrs Hale blinked, unsure of the relevance of his statement. ‘Leave Milton? I had not thought you would be leaving. Why should you?’

‘Miss Hale will not want to live here. She abhors Milton,’ he moaned. ‘I have seen where she gre ─,’ John halted his tongue yet again. He was about to say that he had seen where she had grown up, to confess that he had visited that little corner of paradise. He almost said that he worried that after being born and raised in such a charming and peaceful haven, that she would not wish to live in a harsh outpost like Milton, the murky underbelly of industrial England.

However, John soon amended his case. ‘I have thought about this often. I could acquire a house away from the mill and possibly move to the nearby countryside if it pleased her. But as much as I would relocate if she wanted it, I would need to go back and forth, and I would hate to be separated from her or our children like that. No, I would need to spend most of my time here, in Milton. It is my life and livelihood. And if I am truthful, I do not think I would be the same man without it.’

‘Goodness!’ Mrs Hale tittered. ‘You have thought a great deal about it.’

‘Well, yes,’ John granted. ‘Her happiness is my constant consideration, my foremost priority.’

Mrs Hale chuckled to herself. ‘As the book of Ecclesiastes says: _The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course._ Yes, perhaps Margaret is not used to Milton, but that does not mean that she cannot learn to feel at home here. Believe me, Mr Thornton, I know what it is like to marry a man who lives in a world that is different to everything I have ever known. But if you love someone and truly wish to spend your life with them, then trust me, you will follow them to the ends of the earth,’ she advocated.

Then, as an afterthought, she tallied: ‘Besides, she likes your house.’

John thought he might need to clean out his ears. ‘What?’ he gasped, gawking like an idiot. ‘Miss Hale said that?’

‘Yes, I asked her once. She has been to your house, you see, and I have not. I was curious. I asked her what she thought of it.’

‘And what did she say?’ he interrogated, a tad too eagerly.

Mrs Hale chortled. ‘Margaret said that she liked it,’ she encouraged, amused by the astonished look spilling across his face. ‘She offered various compliments if I remember correctly. I recall asking her if she found the noise of the mill rowdy or disturbing, but to my surprise she said no.’

‘No?!’ John spat out, now certain that his hearing was faulty. It must be the result of working for so many years alongside boisterous machines.

‘Indeed. She said that she found being able to watch the busy life of the mill from your windows quite exhilarating. I think the word she used was, “fascinating,” when describing it all. In fact, Margaret even went as far as to say that she wished she could sit and study the comings and goings of the mill yard for hours. As a matter of fact, I half recollect her mentioning something about observing you, if I am not mistaken,’ Mrs Hale casually threw in, once again entertained by his staggered expression.

‘She said that you, “caught her eye,” I think. I believe she described you as, “impressive,’ as you went about your business. To be sure, Mr Thornton, I rather think that you will find that Margaret considers your world of cotton and commerce riveting rather than repellent. I do say, your esteemed mill has a master, so why not give it a mistress too?’ Mrs Hale giggled.

John was rendered speechless. Could it be that she…could Margaret be happy…here…in Milton…at Marlborough Mills…with _him_? 

‘Oh, and she said she liked the jade green wallpaper and gold edging, whatever that means,’ Mrs Hale added as she picked at a straggly fingernail, unsure of whether the comment was relevant or not.

John glanced up and gaped. Jade green wallpaper? Gold edging? But the only room in the house that had that was…John choked. _No_! How? It could not be!...

…Could it?

Stealing a quick peek at her bedside clock, Mrs Hale stifled a gasp. Goodness! – six minutes! So, thinking on her final area of concern, she spluttered: ‘She will need to be herself.’

John was lost in his musings, still engrossed with imagining his house filled with his and Margaret’s family. He envisioned the delight of waking up beside a sleepy Margaret every morning, his beloved wife soft and sweet as she yawned and stretched to greet the day. He thought of her sitting by his side at the breakfast table, their fingers brushing as they passed the butter and coffee pot. Their smiles, their blushes, their kisses. If she was as beautiful first thing in the day as he pictured her in his dreams, then he wondered how on earth he was ever supposed to tear his eyes from her. Then, as he left for the mill, John would turn and Margaret would reach up onto her tiptoes to kiss him a fond farewell, but as their lips touched, they would feel a knocking of limbs moving about between them. Grinning, both husband and wife would peer down to see their brood of Thornton pups, all running about, as merry as can be.

But on hearing his hostess’s question, John turned to offer her his fleeting attention. ‘What do you mean?’

Mrs Hale’s face grew graver than it had been all evening. ‘You and I both know that Margaret is...well, she is Margaret. She is wilful. She is opinionated. She is abrupt. She does not care a fig for convention. She will not dangle herself on your arm at parties like an ornament and smile and nod like a doll. She will respect you. She will support you. She will devote herself to you. But no matter what, she will always be Margaret,’ Mrs Hale counselled.

‘She is a rare bird and many a husband would wish to strip Margaret of her independent ways, to clip her wings. It is all very well saying you appreciate her now, Mr Thornton, but I assure you, marriage is not easy. When it comes down to it, most men do not like to be challenged, especially by their wives. It is one thing to admire Margaret from a far, but if you marry her, could you really allow her to be herself without restraint? To have her own points of view? Her own feelings? Her own pursuits? Would you sanction these freedoms, even if they utterly opposed your own interests?’ Would you let her carry on with her friendship with factory workers? To continue her charitable endeavours? Tell me, sir, will my dear daughter still be allowed to be herself when she becomes Margaret Thornton?’

With trembling lips, Mrs Hale confessed her greatest fear. ‘I beg you, Mr Thornton, do not ever clip her wings!’

Mrs Hale shivered, and a flood of tears began to roll down her cheeks, the droplets dripping onto the pages of her open Bible.

This time, it was John’s turn to take Mrs Hale’s hand. In that instant, his heart was overcome by a need to reassure this ailing lady, the mother of the woman he loved more than anything, that all would be well. Mrs Hale was relying on him; she was putting Margaret’s happiness in his hands, and she needed to trust that he would look after her precious daughter after she was long gone.

Clasping her hand in his, she sniffed as she felt the warmth of his masculine grasp enveloping her cold fingers. Caressing her knobbly knuckles with his thumb, John smiled. ‘Now then, why on earth would I wish to change her?’ he soothed. ‘If I did, then she would not be _my Margaret_.’

Mrs Hale gasped for air. Her soul sang with joy at hearing Mr Thornton speak her daughter’s name for the first time tonight. And with God as her witness, it had never sounded so well.

Patting Mrs Hale’s hand, John concluded: ‘I would not want her any other way.’

Mrs Hale was mollified, and she dabbed her eyes yet again.

‘But Mrs Hale,’ John said cautiously, ‘I cannot believe that she cares for me. Even if there is not another man, even if she regrets what she said when I asked for her hand, even if she could settle in Milton, I have hurt her beyond reparation. That letter she sent me, or rather, the letter Mr Hale sent, asking me to stay away, it spoke of a woman who wants nothing more to do with me.’

‘Oh, tosh! You need not fret about that, young man!’ Mrs Hale dismissed, flapping her handkerchief like a white flag of peace. ‘She did not mean a word of it! No, Margaret was just overwhelmed by everything that had happened. What with you bawling at her and saying you did not care for her, followed by Margaret’s realisation that she loves you, then seeing you with Miss Latimer, it was all too much for her inexperienced heart to cope with. Margaret did not ask you to stay away because she does not want to see you. Indeed, orchestrating her separation from you must have cut her to pieces and taken great courage,’ she expounded, gently shaking his arm.

‘No, Mr Thornton, Margaret asked you to stay away because the idea of seeing you and thinking she was nothing to you was all too painful for the poor lamb. She could not bear to pour you tea and listen to you talk about your life, knowing that she would never have a part in it. Can you imagine how you would feel being expected to see Margaret week after week, hearing about her husband and children, being informed of her blissful happiness, all the while knowing that it is not your ring on her finger or your babe in her belly? How would that make you feel?' she pushed.

'It would kill me!' John said frankly, a menacing frown on his face.

'My point exactly! It would be torture! No, dear boy, that letter about your lessons means nothing. Margaret had just had her heart broken, by you, she was not thinking straight under the strain of her grief.’

John nodded. Yes, that made sense. He could understand that. God! He had been obsessing for days about calling to see her and apologising for all that he had said and done. If only he had! If only he had not been intercepted and impeded by that damned note from Mr Hale! If it had not been for that infernal message, he would have been none the wiser, and John would have come to Margaret by now, thrown himself at her feet, and declared his love for her. Whether it was true that she cared for him or not, and he could hardly credit such a heavenly outcome, then at least he could have spared both him and her the turmoil of the past few days. 

As John was thinking on this, Mrs Hale’s ears pricked like a rabbit. Luckily for the mother, her hearing was excellent, and as she sat in her bed, she perceived the distant thud of the front door closing and her heart quickened. In a hurried and harassed voice, Mrs Hale turned to her guest. ‘Then I ask you one more time, Mr Thornton…do you care for my daughter? And do you wish her to be your wife?’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ John affirmed without hesitation, perplexed by the animated twinkle in her eyes.

‘Then you must tell her so!’ she said decisively. ‘No more misunderstandings, Mr Thornton, no more!’ she insisted, moving her hands in a way that indicated that a line was being drawn in the sand. ‘The time for arguing, obstinacy, and false impressions is over. It is time for apologies, concessions, and openness. You have been wrong, Mr Thornton, so very wrong. You have let yourself be ruled by doubt and have permitted your insecurities to cloud your judgement, preventing you from seeing what was right in front of you all along, which is that Margaret does love you, and deep down, she always has!’

Mrs Hale heard the muffled tread of footsteps on the stairs, and they were too light to be Dixon’s or Mr Hale’s.

‘You are a logical man, Mr Thornton. Then I bid you look at the facts before you. Margaret shielded you from danger at the riot. Margaret was distressed about her harsh words to you after she refused you. Margaret kept your gloves. Margaret was different with you two nights ago when you came to tea. Margaret was worried about whether you would find her pretty. Margaret accepted your gift of flowers gladly. Margaret baked you your favourite biscuits. Margaret tended to your hand most tenderly. Margaret told you that things could be different if you applied to her again. Margaret stayed in your arms on the stairs. Margaret offered to spend more time with you. Margaret was devastated by your verdict of indifference. Margaret was envious of your supposed attachment to another woman. Margaret has cried over you. She has, sir, made it abundantly clear that she loves you, so for pity sake! – enough! You are hers, Mr Thornton, so _please_ , let her be yours in return!’ Mrs Hale pleaded, her voice rising into a crescendo.

Mrs Hale heard the faint sound of humming, a song that she had once sung to her children in the nursery.

‘Did the poet not say it himself? _“Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move his aides, Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.”’_

Mrs Hale heard a floorboard creak at the top of the landing.

‘No more misunderstandings, Mr Thornton, you _must_ tell her how you feel!’

‘But will she be willing to listen to me?’ John asked, his hearing not so finely tuned.

‘I think that she will,’ Mrs Hale encouraged. ‘But that is not what you should be asking yourself. No, Mr Thornton, all you should ask yourself is: do you truly love Margaret?’ she questioned once more, the sound of silken shoes coming from down the corridor, getting closer and closer.

‘Yes! Of course I do! You know I do!’ he muttered, not nearly loud enough for anyone other than Mrs Hale to overhear. 

‘What was that?’ Mrs Hale pressed, her heart racing as she discerned the whine of the doorknob turning. ‘I did not quite catch that. Old age, it comes to us all I'm afraid, my hearing was not what it once was. What did you say?’

‘I love your daughter,’ John repeated in a low mumble, his eyebrows knitted in scepticism at her idiosyncratic behaviour.

‘Come again?!’ Mrs Hale harangued, the hinges groaning as the door creaked open. ‘Louder, Mr Thornton, I could not quite hear you.’

‘What?! How often do I need to say it?’ he carped.

But as Mrs Hale leaned in towards him, her hand theatrically placed at her ear as if to indicate her most sudden and unfathomable loss of hearing, John’s thinning patience finally snapped. Soaring to his feet and with a booming voice, he declared:

‘I LOVE MARGARET!’

At that moment, a strange sort of impish grin spread across Mrs Hale’s face. It was crossed between a smile and a smirk, a simper perhaps. John could not understand it at first, his narrowed eyes watching her warily. But then, as he saw her gaze dart behind him, John suddenly stiffened.

Oh, help!

Veering slowly, ever so slowly, John spun round.

Oh, God!

It was as he had suspected.

They were not alone.

Standing behind him was a woman.

A woman who he would recognise anywhere.

She was frozen in place, framed by the partially opened door. Her parted lips quivering, her cheeks blushing, her glossy hair falling loosely down past her shoulders and cascading over a most enthralling dress of blue and white ─ she was a vision! She simply stood there, remained there, her chest heaving, her wide eyes fixed on him.

John could not breathe.

Bewitched, the two of them simply stared at each other for what could have been hours.

John let his eyes slowly travel over her figure from head to toe. God save him! ─ she had never looked so enchanting.

However, it was not him nor her that would break the suffocating silence that swamped them. No, it was Mrs Hale, Cupid’s assistant, who had just fired her final arrow.

‘Ah, Margaret, there you are, at last.’

With her gaze flitting between the awestruck lovers, Mrs Hale announced with a playful sparkle in her eyes:

‘Do come in, my dear, Mr Thornton and I were just talking about you.’


End file.
